


Come Down Off Your Throne

by fairywearsbootz



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:40:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28337109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairywearsbootz/pseuds/fairywearsbootz
Summary: Three years since they've defeated Lucifer and to Dean it's still just the day Cas died. So this year's anniversary of their big glorious victory finds him in southern Utah all by himself, checking out a couple of unexplained deaths he would never consider hunt-worthy under normal circumstances. That is until he wakes up one night and right there, in the middle of his room, is Cas.__________Originally posted to Livejournal 2010-10-10. Written after season 4; half of season five is not taken into account, so that probably makes it AU.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A while ago I deleted my livejournal and never got around to moving my stories to ao3 but apparently there are still people who like this story so this is my humble Christmas present to all of you, have fun :).
> 
> I wrote this ages ago for the [Dean/Cas Big Bang 2010](https://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/). All my thanks to my fantastic betas, [agent_jl36](https://agent-jl36.livejournal.com/) and [atlasaxis](https://atlasaxis.livejournal.com/) – any remaining errors are my own.

_A plain, vast and deserted. Above it the sky, heavy with dark gray clouds. The earth, red and dusty, is torn apart, marked by deep ridges and furrows. There‘s not a single plant, not a single trace of green as far as Dean can see._

_Cold winds howl around him and gravel crunches under his feet and he realizes; this is the place. The place where the final battle went down, the last stand of the apocalypse._

_The place where they defeated Lucifer._

_But something‘s still missing, a particular detail that he desperately tries to call back to his memory. Something important, something he should never have forgotten. He scrunches up his forehead as he stares at the barren landscape laid out in front of him, biting his lip, when–_

_A sound behind him._

_A quiet gasp, barely audible over the raging winds._

_Labored breathing, making his blood turn to ice and his insides split._

_He turns around slowly, scared to death of what he‘ll see. He turns around, and there is Cas, lying on the ground in a bloody heap of tangled limbs and trench coat. His arms are wrapped around his stomach, where Dean can see red blossom through the white cloth of his shirt. His face is still eerily quiet despite the deep lines carved around his mouth, his eyes hooded with pain, a thin line of crimson trickling down his chin._

_Dean‘s on his knees next to the angel in a heartbeat. “No,” he mumbles, helplessly, as his hands reach for him, “no, no, no, Cas, no God dammit!” But even as he tears off his shirt, pressing it onto the worst of the deep cuts hacked into Cas‘s chest, he knows; he‘s too late._

_Cas‘s breath has become a mere rattle, red foam on his lips, and his eyes are on Dean through all his frantic attempts at stopping the blood gushing out of the angel‘s body. They are still as blue as ever, as piercing, as calm. The pain in his expression dissolves, replaced by something Dean can‘t quite discern. He stops his fruitless actions, his hand resting on Cas‘s chest. The angel‘s heartbeat under his fingers. Stop, start, skip, and–_

_“Cas,” Dean whispers, his voice almost failing him._

Dean _, Cas‘s eyes say, smiling._

_“I‘m so sorry,” Dean says. And still Cas‘s eyes are bright, and brighter, and brighter still, and Dean doesn‘t want to turn away, but at some point his body acts of its own, shielding his eyes from the blinding light. When he opens them again, there‘s nothing left but red spots dancing through his view, an empty vessel in his arms, and the ashen shadows of two widespread wings in the dust around him._

_On the hard ground, stones and ridges digging into his legs, cold winds tearing at his skin, Dean‘s sitting there alone, the lifeless, cooling body of the angel in his arms._

_For a second he simply refuses to believe it. Then the pain hits him like– there‘s no word for it. Like he can‘t breathe, like he can‘t think, move, speak, scream, cry, laugh, anything ever again. Deep in his chest it forms, boils, rises within him as he‘s doubling over, choking, sobbing, panting, and still there‘s Cas in his arms, dead, dead,_ dead _, his brilliant eyes empty, devoid of everything that Dean has–_

Dean awakes with a gasp.

Sitting bolt upright in his shabby motel bed, thin sheets clutched in his fists, drenched with his sweat like his whole body. A cool breeze brushes by his neck, and for a moment he is back on that red plain, pain tearing through his chest. But then he takes a deep breath and remembers it‘s just been another dream.

Sometimes it‘s a barren plain, sometimes an abandoned graveyard, an old warehouse, Chuck‘s house. Always it‘s Cas dying and him helpless to do anything but watch. Just dreams, because–

In reality Cas was already dead when he got to him.

After everything that has happened, after everything he and Sam and his father have done, this is the one thing he will never be able to forgive himself.

###

He doesn‘t expect to find anymore sleep that night, but the moment his head touches the pillow he‘s out cold and he doesn’t wake until almost noon. Garish sunlight is flooding the room, burning in his eyes and heating up the sheets clinging to his legs. His head is throbbing with a dull ache, his mouth dry, and for a moment he has trouble remembering where he is. Groaning he raises his hand, shielding his eyes. The low murmur of voices outside, the sound of a car engine, far away on the road in front of the motel. A woman laughs, and he groans as the shrill sound drills into his head.

He feels like crap, like waking up from a bender gone horribly wrong, and he doesn‘t even know why. Maybe because he overslept, or maybe because he was dreaming of Cas for the whole rest of the night. Not so much dreaming as remembering actually, a slide show of ”The Prophecy” flickering through his mind. Images so strong, they stay with him even now as the sun burns red-hot through the skin of his fingers and right into his retinas.

When he‘s finally back on the road, having dulled his headache with a mixture of coffee, aspirin and shades, his phone starts ringing. He throws one glance at the display, sees that it‘s Sam and tosses the phone over on the passenger seat.

It doesn‘t take five minutes till it starts ringing again. Bobby‘s number this time.

“Yeah?”

“Dude, you said you‘d be there.” Even through the static crackling in his cell he can hear the pissed off edge to Sam‘s voice.

“Good morning to you, too, sunshine,” he says. “Something came up.”

“Something _came up_?”

“Southern Utah, three people died of heart failure in less than two weeks.”

“You‘re kidding, right?”

“What?”

“That thing from the newspaper? Dude, we were telling you, it‘s not a hunt. I can‘t believe you‘re going there just to get out of having a good time with us!”

“Evil things don‘t hunt themselves, Sammy. We can‘t all take time off and party.” He knows he‘s being unfair, but he probably made it clear enough that he‘s not in the mood to have this conversation. Not clear enough for his brother, of course.

“It‘s not a– Dean, I don‘t care, you _promised_ you‘d stay this year! There are tons of hunters here waiting to meet you and now you just took off again and left me here all on my own!”

“As much as I appreciate you stroking my ego I think they‘re also there to see you and Bobby.”

“But you too! They’re all outside, setting up this huge “thank you for stopping the apocalypse” party, and one of the main guests will be missing for the third year in a row!” Sam is almost yelling the last words and Dean winces.

“I don‘t feel much like partying,” he mutters.

“Is this because of Castiel?” Sam asks suspiciously, “because if it is–”

“It‘s not, OK?” Dean snaps, “and I wish to God you‘d fucking stop bringing that up.”

There‘s a short silence. Dean can literally hear Sam trying to figure out the best way to approach this. Sure enough when he starts talking again, his voice is much softer. Dean has heard him use this exact voice on countless victims and witnesses over the years and it begins to piss him off that his brother thinks he can push his buttons this easily.

“Look, Dean, it‘s been three years now. I know you, you know, _liked_ the guy, but–”

“Whoa, Sammy,” Dean cuts him off, “ _liked_? What‘s that supposed to mean?”

“You know damn well what I mean,” Sam huffs, forgoing his poor attempt at being patient, “You’ve been borderline depressed ever since he died, you barely look at women anymore, you keep having these nightmares and we wanna help, we really do, but how are we supposed to do that if you won‘t let us? I mean, you never talk about it, you don‘t cry,” Dean scoffs, but Sam just rattles on, “You won‘t even _admit_ something‘s wrong even though everyone can see it. Seriously, man, I‘m at the end of my rope here. I just don‘t know what to say or do anymore. ”

“I‘ll tell you what to do, Sam,” Dean says, anger edging into his voice, “You should get your head out of your girly soap opera-land, where everything‘s about people in _love_ , and where as long as you talk and cry everything‘s gonna be alright, ‘cause it isn‘t. And most of all you should stop reading things into me not wanting to come to your goddamn party! He was just a friend, alright? Jesus.” He takes a deep breath and if he briefly wonders where the sting inside him came from with those last words, well, he‘s used to not thinking about that one.

For a second there‘s silence, making him wonder if he overdid it but then Sam just sighs heavily.

“Dean, you know what? You wouldn‘t know denial if it punched you in the face. When you stop behaving like a three-year-old, you should really take some time and think about why you always blow up in my face like this when Cas comes up. You know, as in think about your _feelings_.”

“Ain‘t got no feelings I wanna think about,” Dean replies brusquely. He can feel Sam open his mouth for an answer, but cuts him off shortly.

“Nothing to talk about, and anyways,” he draws a deep breath, feeling all fight leave him and his weariness triple, “the guy is dead.”

There is another silence, longer this time. Then Sam says resignedly, “Well, call me if you need help.”

A click and then there‘s just silence again.

Dean tosses the phone to the back of the car, too far to reach while he‘s driving. His gaze is set on the dusty street stretching in front of him, his jaw set firmly, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white.

Cas is dead.

Sometimes when Dean feels he‘s getting off track, when he starts pondering and thinking about ‘what if‘s and ‘maybe‘s, when he‘s basically becoming all sappy feelings like Sam wants him to be this is what he tells himself.

Cas is dead.

He enunciates every word in his mind as clearly as he can, forces himself to stare this cold hard truth right in the face. And can feel himself harden inside, something in his chest pulling together and thickening until there‘s nothing left but darkness, knotted and unyielding. Until every mushy, cheesy chick-flick thought has been burned out of his mind and heart and he‘s just a soldier with nothing left to fight for.

Until the next time he sees someone with blue eyes, or a sand-colored trench coat, or the black wings of a crow fluttering above barren autumn fields, and he‘s falling apart all over again.

###

It only takes Dean a couple of hours more to reach his destination. He would‘ve been there even earlier if the road leading into the town hadn‘t been left to rot for the last 30 years. Swearing under his breath he steers his baby around the abundance of potholes making up what seems to be called a street around here. There‘s a particularly nasty one right next to the city sign, green and scratched and half-hidden behind a bush.

Osiris, it says, population 2973.

As he gets closer to the city center there are more and more houses on the sides of the street. Most of them look pretty run-down, all peeling paint and cracks in the walls, and he wonders if the whole town looks like this. There are, surprisingly, many young people around, but as Dean passes them slowly he sees the looks of defeat in their too-old eyes. The unemployment rate is probably through the roof, but at least he can‘t spot any Mormons.

He‘s already starting to wonder if there‘s even a motel around when he sees garish pink neon lights, spelling out “Starlite Motel” in flickering letters. Half an hour later he‘s got the key to a single room and the directions to the local sheriff‘s office.

He drops his stuff in the room first, letting himself fall onto the narrow bed for a moment as his fatigue catches up with him. The threadbare sheets are scratchy under his palms, the air holds the familiar stale smell of dust mixed with nicotine and sweat and for a second he‘s wondering if it‘s really worth driving hundreds of miles for this just to skip Sam‘s party. But then again, he really hopes that his brother was wrong, and there is something here. Because a hunt is a hunt, no matter where, and his hands are itching for something to fight.

Finally he gets up with a sigh, changes and leaves. As he arrives at the police station, he pulls up on the curve and checks his appearance in the mirror one last time. Tie not too loose, black suit not too crinkled, hair more or less combed. He steps out and into the building, trying to banish the image of his eyes and the dark circles around them from his mind.

###

One hour later he‘s still sitting in a dingy faux leather chair in the sheriff‘s office.

“So, Agent– Grech, was it?” Dean barely bothers to nod for what feels like the tenth time, polite smile fraying on the edges.

“Yeah, right,” the sheriff drawls, eyes still focused on Dean‘s ID while he idly plucks at his mustache. “So, those bodies.”

As it becomes clear there‘s nothing more to come, Dean suppresses a sigh and leans forward in the visitor‘s chair. “Sir, I know I‘m crossing into your territory here, but my boss sent me here, wants me to do a little in-depth check, you know how it is. We just want to rule out we‘ve got another serial going on.”

“I see.” With a groan the man leans forward, pressing an impressive beer belly against his mahogany desk as he finally gives Dean his ID back. “You know, son, hate to tell you,” _again_ , Dean adds in his mind, “but you made the trip for nothin‘. Those people just didn‘t take too well to the heat. Hell, I don‘t take too well to the heat. But unless you wanna bust the sun, ain‘t gonna be something in it for you.”

Dean barely refrains from throwing a pointed look out the window, where ragged clouds obscure a gray sky laden with rain. “I‘d still like to see the files and the bodies, just to be sure,” he repeats instead. He wouldn‘t be surprised if he‘d sprout feathers and a beak anytime soon, given how he‘s been repeating the same three sentences over and over again. The conversation has been running in circles for the better part of the last half-hour, spiked with far too many “Uhm‘s” and “Yeah‘s” and “Nothing suspicious here, really” and he‘s getting tired of it.

“Yeah, well, the files. They‘re not much though, what with those people dying of natural causes.” The sheriff casts Dean another skeptic glance. “But I‘ll just have Christine copy them for you. Christine!” he yells, making Dean flinch at the volume.

A mousy-looking woman in her late thirties shuffles into the office, wrapped up in a mustard-colored cardigan. Her forehead seems lodged in a constant frown that only deepens when she takes the files. While she‘s gone the sheriff launches into another speech about the waste of time this whole thing is going to be for Dean, and when she returns ten minutes later, Dean can‘t help himself but greet her with the broadest, most grateful smile he‘s got. After that she actually blushes when she hands him the papers and their fingers brush for a fleeting moment.

He says his thanks and goodbyes and flees the office as fast as he can. Even a morgue has to be better than this.

###

“I understand there have been three victims so far?”

The coroner, a haggard, middle-aged guy with nicotine-stained fingers and a bad case of smoker‘s cough, nods while he pulls open one of the morgue’s refrigerator drawers.

“That‘s right,” he says, “if you want to call them victims. All died of a heart attack, all found in their beds by their loving family or – in this case – by caring co-workers. This here was the first one. Bill Henderson, 39 years old, white, male, as I guess you can see for yourself.”

“I got the data from the files, thank you,” Dean half-lies (he did leaf through them on the way down here) and takes the time to roll his eyes before he looks at the corpse laid out in front of him. The guy‘s body is massive with muscle from a lifetime of everyday physical labor, the beginnings of a beer belly visible under the white sheet billowing around his hips. His face shows the burnt, wrinkled skin telling of long hours outside, and the odd burst veins of someone drinking too much for his own good. Dean has seen the beginnings of these veins on his own face, and in his own bloodshot eyes after a night of drinking himself into oblivion. To look into this face, pale under its reddish tan, feels like looking into his own future, and it‘s creeping him out more than the familiar Y-shaped scar, lined by irregular dark threads, that cuts into the man‘s torso.

The coroner clears his throat, which sets off another coughing fit, and Dean realizes he‘s been staring at the corpse for a good two minutes. Straightening himself he shoves the cot back, making the cabinet door fall shut with a loud bang that sends the good doctor flinching.

“Doesn‘t look like someone who‘d die of a heart attack,” Dean says brusquely, trying to play down his strange behavior.

The coroner gives him an odd look. “Oh, you never know.” He dismisses Dean‘s statement with a shrug. “I‘ve seen guys drop dead from heart failure that weren‘t even your age. And he was a heavy drinker,” he adds, turning towards the next drawer. Which is good, because he doesn‘t see Dean wince at his words.

“Of course the situation is very different in this case,” he continues, pulling out another cot.

The girl under the white linen can‘t be older than fifteen, maybe sixteen. Her long hair is dyed a dull black, heavy makeup obscuring her closed eyes but not hiding the pimples on her forehead and cheeks. She’s a bit on the chubby side, and exactly the kind of girl Dean wouldn‘t have spared one look at back in high school.

“You don‘t think she died of a heart attack?”

“Oh, she did. Just I‘ve never heard of a heart attack on a patient this young. I‘m actually thinking about writing an article on her,” the coroner answers, closing the cabinet much more carefully than Dean before. Dean raises an eyebrow.

“An article? You?”

The doc throws him an indulgent half-smile. “Believe it or not, medical expertise can flourish even in a place like this.”

He turns to a body on a gurney in the middle of the room before Dean has the chance to respond. He draws back the white cover with a practiced, fluid motion. “And last but not least we had this one coming in.”

It‘s a young man, tall and lean. Dean guesses he‘s kind of attractive, in a brooding, artsy kind of way, with a shock of dark hair falling into his clean-cut face.

“Our resident bohemian,” the doc explains. “Art teacher at the local high school, healthiest lifestyle I‘ve ever set eyes on in my entire career. Non-drinker, non-smoker, vegetarian, ran one hour every morning.” He huffs, his hands subconsciously wandering to the pack of cigarettes in the breast pocket of his lab coat.

Dean can‘t help himself if the guy seems much more agreeable to him all of a sudden. “I see,” he says, rubbing his chin to disguise his smirk.

He steps closer to the lifeless body in front of him, carefully searching the waxen yellow skin. For cuts, for marks, for something he doesn‘t know yet, but will recognize once he‘s found it.

“Except their hearts, did you find anything extraordinary about them? Tox screens, wounds, suspiciously deformed organs?”

The doc gives a startled little laugh that ends in another coughing fit. “Sorry, boy,” he wheezes, “but no, nothing special. Nothing _suspiciously deformed_.”

Dean looks up at him from where he‘s trying to catch a glimpse of the guy‘s back. He shrugs. “You wouldn‘t believe some of the things you get to see in my line of work.”

“I see,” the doc says dryly. “Well, he did throw a bit of a hissy fit the day before he ended up here. Rumor has it he tried to grope his brother‘s wife in the pasta aisle at the local Wal Mart. But, last time I heard, strange behavior was not among the risk factors for critical heart failure, so I wouldn‘t give it too much thought.”

“Anyways,” he continues, handing Dean a couple of papers, “here are copies of the autopsy reports. Let‘s see if you can make more of them than I could.”

“Yeah, let‘s see,” Dean mumbles as he follows the man outside.

It‘s already become dark when he exits the building.

For a moment he‘s just breathing in the fresh night air greedily, trying to get the stink of decay, antiseptics, and nicotine out of his nose. It rained while he was inside and the asphalt is glittering, mirroring the lights overhead. While he slowly walks up to the Impala, he casually toys with the thought of going to a bar, getting drunk to try and avoid his nightmares the traditional way. Only he knows from experience that it never helps for long, and there‘s a hunt waiting for him tomorrow.

He‘s taking out his keys to unlock the Impala when there‘s a flapping noise behind him. He spins around, so fast his hand catches on the handle of the door, skin tearing, but he doesn‘t even notice. His eyes scan the parking lot, gleaming with neon light, reflected and real, his heart hammering against his ribs almost painfully hard.

But the place is empty, of course it is, and there‘s only the flag in front of the building that‘s been caught in a particularly strong breeze.

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, wills his treacherous body to calm down. Wipes the blood off his hand, gets into his car and leaves.

When he finally arrives at back at his room, he feels nothing but a leaden tiredness burning in the corners of his eyes. He walks in, changes and falls into bed, praying to no one in particular that he‘ll be spared another nightmare until he‘s gotten at least a couple of hours of sleep.

Because this is how it is: When he‘s awake his subconscious can‘t seem to grasp that Cas is gone, and in his dreams, it can‘t do anything but.

###

When he wakes again the toxic green letters of the alarm say 4.04 a.m. and the first thing he feels is confusion. Then he realizes something has woken him.

Slowly he lets his eyes wander around the room, careful to avoid any sudden movements. His hand creeps under his pillow, nestling up against the cool handle of the gun lying there. A dark figure is standing next to the rickety table, unmoving.

He has almost pried the weapon from under his pillow, when–

The clouds outside break up and cold silvery moonlight floods the room. He blinks for a second, blinded by the sudden luminance, and because for a moment, a heartbeat– but then he looks again, and really, the figure standing there, it‘s–

It‘s Cas.

Cas, in his suit and trench coat, tie hanging precariously around his neck. Cas, his black hair mussed and spiky, the faintest of stubble shading his cheeks. Cas, standing here, in his room, at his table, idly flipping through one of Dean‘s books. Looking so much like he did back in that ramshackle barn, back then when Dean had not yet memorized his every move and sound and breath, it makes the mark on his shoulder tingle.

Every bit like Cas, except that Cas died on the floor of a run-down warehouse in Detroit three years ago.

In a flash Dean‘s out of the bed, almost falling as the sheets tangle up around him. The gun is cold in his hands when he cocks it at the other person.

“Don‘t move!” he bellows. “Who are you? What are you?”

_Shape-shifter_ , his brain supplies. _Siren, ghoul, revenant_. So many choices and every and each one of them more probable than _Castiel_ standing here in his room.

The man turns without haste. “Dean,” he says, and his voice, deep and gravelly and calm, sends shivers down Dean‘s spine. “You‘re awake.”

He closes the book and starts to move towards Dean.

“Stay where you are!” Dean snaps. His whole body is shaking but the gun in his hands is still. 30 years of training have seen to that. “Stay where you are or so God help me, I‘ll blow your brains out right here, right now.”

The – thing, whatever he is – stops. His eyes shine almost unnaturally bright in the moonlight as he eyes Dean warily.

“You seem– confused,” he says, the pause in his words almost imperceptible. Just like all the times before Cas had been searching for the right word and settling on a less than perfect choice to express his bewilderment with Dean or humanity in general.

“Damn right I‘m confused,” Dean scoffs, “confused as to how one of you sons of bitches could think you‘d get away with something like this. I don‘t even care what you are, you‘re not gonna walk away from this so easily. I‘m gonna rip your lungs out piece by piece, I‘m gonna–”

“I don‘t understand why you keep on insisting I‘m not me,” Cas – no, the creature – interrupts him, the first signs of impatience creeping into his voice.

“Because you’re dead!” Dean yells. The words catch in his throat, burn his tongue.

Three years, and he‘s back in that warehouse with Cas‘s bloody, bruised body in his arms, bones shifting in horribly wrong ways, bright red blood trickling between pale lips, and there‘s only death and pain, and _death_.

Cas just stares at him in utter puzzlement, eyes so wide Dean‘s almost sure he can see himself mirrored in them.

“I think I would know if I‘d died again,” he says finally, as matter-of-factly as if he was talking about the weather.

And Dean– Dean‘s lost for words, shaking his head slowly in a futile attempt to wrap his mind around this. Because he remembers Detroit, remembers it so fucking well, but at the same time he also remembers his father‘s storage in Rover Hill, remembers time travel and Bible Camp and years in hell that have been only months on earth. For so long he‘s believed that Cas is gone and at the same time refused to believe it, and now there‘s this being, less than five feet away from him. Frowning at him, head cocked sideways like a flustered bird in a gesture that is so Cas–

_Good things do happen, Dean._

_No, they don‘t_ , he thinks grimly, yet somehow–

Somehow.

It‘s nothing he consciously decides, but suddenly there‘s his voice, forming words he can‘t remember thinking.

“Come here,” it says, and it‘s calm, so calm. His brain is still screaming at him to pull the trigger as fast as he can, but his hands move of their own accord as they lay the gun on the bed behind him. Cas steps nearer, and for a moment Dean‘s sure the angel will attack him, or maybe just vanish under his touch. A dream, a memory, an illusion. But Cas‘s skin is warm under his fingers, the pulse on his wrist strong and steady as Dean rolls up the sleeve of his trench coat, suit jacket and shirt.

The silver knife is on his nightstand, right next to his lighter and a bottle of whiskey. Cas watches him intently as Dean cuts into the soft skin of his forearm, a line of blood welling up dark and dull in the dim light. He washes it away with holy water, and then he gets a piece of cloth Pam gave him a lifetime ago, embroidered with runes that fend off evil, and he uses it to bandage Cas up.

The tremor in his limbs starts again then, a subtle trembling of his skin at first. Then his knees go weak and he sinks onto the bed, slumping forward. His hands still hold on to Cas‘s wrist, his thumbs moving aimlessly over warm, living flesh.

“Cas,” he whispers, and it comes out more as a sob than anything else. He takes a deep breath, then another one. Another one. But even as he‘s fighting the choking sensation in his throat, his chest heaving with barely suppressed sobs, something there is loosening, untangling and unknotting, dissolving.

Because Cas is really here and he‘s finally able to breathe again.

“You‘re back,” he says. His voice cracks up somewhere in between the words but he doesn‘t even care.

“You need to rest, Dean,” Cas replies, gently extricating his hand from Dean‘s grasp and pushing him back onto the bed. “Go to sleep.”

“You‘re not gonna disappear on me while I‘m asleep, are you?” Dean asks suspiciously as he slips under the covers, unable to do anything but obey the angel‘s words.

A feather-soft touch of cool fingers to his forehead and tiredness that triples in intensity.

“I won‘t.”

Even as darkness envelops him, the iridescent blue of Cas‘s eyes stays with his every heartbeat.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean opens his eyes and Cas is still there.

Breathing a sigh of relief he lets himself sink back into the mattress, a stupid grin spreading on his face. Only now, as the tension is draining out of his muscles, he realizes how even in his sleep he‘d been convinced everything was just another dream. But the angel is sitting on a chair next to his bed, a book in his lap, and he looks up when he hears Dean moving.

“Good morning, Dean,” he says. The hint of a smile is playing around the corners of his mouth, and Dean can‘t stop staring at him. Warm sunlight is streaking through the greasy glass next to Cas, a halo of gilded dust behind his dark hair. And his skin, it looks so warm, so alive, Dean can hardly keep from reaching out and running his fingers over the angel‘s neck, just to feel his pulse and know, it‘s real. Cas is really there, with him.

“Are you feeling well?” Cas asks him, frowning, and Dean realizes he‘s been lying in bed motionlessly, staring at the angel for the better part of the last ten minutes.

“Yeah,” he barks, sitting up straight, then kind of looses track when Cas tilts his head to give him one of his glances.

One breathless moment, eyes locked together and Dean can feel something inside of him settle, come to peace, like the silence of dawn after a stormy night. Like mud sinking back to the bottom of a lake after being troubled, and that might not be the best way to describe how he feels but the fact that he‘s thinking in metaphors should be enough to explain.

With a shake of his head he tears himself out of his reverie. “Breakfast!” he overcompensates, jumping out of the bed. “We need breakfast. Well, I do, so– we’ll go and have breakfast. Now.”

As fast as he can he throws some clothes on, gets his keys and jacket and marches out of the door, careful to not pay too much attention to Cas, who is following him with a bewildered expression on his face.

He has the feeling this is something new, Cas‘s mere presence throwing him off track so much. Maybe it‘s just because it‘s all so fresh, Cas coming back from the dead. Or maybe it has been this way before and he just hadn‘t realized. He doesn‘t really know, but at the same time, he doesn‘t really care either.

###

The diner down the street makes an amazing cherry pie, flaky and juicy and just about melting in Dean‘s mouth. So he digs in greedily, and it makes not staring at Cas a little bit easier.

A little bit.

Every time he looks up and sees those familiar blue eyes focused intently on him, the slightly knitted dark brows and the mussed up black hair... the first time the piece of pie he‘s been chewing on drops right out of his mouth. But at some point he‘s eaten all the food and drunk all the coffee he can and Cas is still looking at him, waiting patiently.

He clears his throat, then clears it again, then picks up a fork to twiddle with. He knows they have to talk about this, but he has this queasy feeling when he thinks of the answers Cas could give him.

Then he realizes it‘s fear and that makes him talk, because he is Dean Winchester after all.

“Alright Cas,” he begins, throwing him a casual glance, “what‘s going on here?”

Cas blinks at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Dean tosses the fork back on the table and rubs his chin in irritation. “Come on, Cas, you know what I mean. Three years of silence and then you suddenly turn up in my motel room at fucking 4 a.m.?” _I thought you were dead_. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but he can‘t make himself speak them out loud. Not again.

“I don‘t understand why it surprised you so much I‘m alive. We have all have died and come back at one point or the other,” Cas states evenly.

“This must be the weirdest conversation this booth has ever seen,” Dean mumbles as he sips from his coffee, then sets the cup back down. “Sure, you‘ve come back before. But the _next day_. And when you ripped me from hell Bobby and Sam both tried to stab me when they saw me, even though I had been away only for a couple of months. Months, Cas, not three fucking years.”

His voice is rising, and he knows it‘s too sharp, too harsh, but he can‘t help it. Cas‘s lips part slightly as if to speak, then he falters, the expression on his face shifting to one of subtle discomfort.

“I hadn‘t realized it had been so long,” he finally says.

For a moment neither of them moves, then Dean sighs and runs his hands through his hair. “Whatever,” he says, motioning to the waitress for a re-fill. “You‘re here now, right?”

“I am,” Cas answers gravely.

Dean grins. “And I‘m happy to see you still haven‘t grasped the concept of rhetorical questions. So while we‘re at this little Q&A-session we‘ve got going on, I have another one for you: Where the hell have you been all this time?”

A frown flickers over Cas‘s face. Eyes blinking, forehead scrunching up, just for the fraction of a second.

“Heaven, I think,” he says eventually, forming the words carefully, as if to taste their sound on his tongue.

“You think?”

“My memories are– flawed,” he says, and again there‘s that tiny pause in his sentence. “Maybe it‘s the strain of inhabiting this vessel again, of re-creating it.”

“Speaking of,” Dean leans forward, pointing his spoon at the angel, “why him again? Why not just take another poor guy‘s meat suit?”

Cas makes a sound almost like a huff. “I knew from past experiences that you disapprove of such measures. Also it seemed more convenient to converse with you wearing a vessel you‘re already accustomed to.” He cocks one of his eyebrows, his head tilting ever so slightly. “Don‘t worry, there‘s no one in here but me.”

“Wow,” Dean says, sinking back into his seat. “Who‘d have known I had such a good influence on you? Don‘t tell me you‘ve taken up drinking and gambling, too.” The joke‘s a little bit shaky, but he feels seriously overwhelmed. Because an angel, because _Cas_ changing something this fundamental to his nature because he‘d disapprove? He can‘t even begin to fathom how that makes him feel. Better, that‘s for sure. Kind of scared, maybe. Proud? As hell.

Fortunately the waitress, a dark-haired teen with braces behind bright red lipstick, chooses this moment to come over to their table. Bracelets are hanging off her wrists by the dozen, little glittery pearl things clinking against Dean‘s cup and he stares at them intently as she pours him another coffee, glad about the distraction.

“Thanks,” he says, then waits till she‘s out of earshot before he turns back to Cas. There is one issue left, and even though he‘s dreading the answers he might get, there‘s no way around it.

“So I guess we‘ve cleared where you‘ve been and why you‘re still him,” he starts, nodding towards Cas‘s body, “but I guess the biggest question is, why are you here? And please don‘t tell me there‘s another apocalypse waiting for us to run into the ground.”

“I–,” Cas stops, his gaze wandering over the table, then snapping back to Dean. “I don‘t know.” His voice is full of surprise, his eyes wide.

Dean‘s eyebrows shoot up. “You don‘t know.”

“I think I must have been sent here for a reason,” Cas continues. “To aid you, maybe. You are on a hunt, aren‘t you, Dean?”

“Yeah, I am,” Dean drawls, running a hand through his hair, “but seriously, man, it doesn‘t look like much. If you hadn‘t shown up, I‘d probably be back on the road right now.”

He gives Cas a quick roundup of what he‘s got so far, which sounds like even less now than it did yesterday. He has the files with him, and when Cas starts leafing through them, he leans back and sips on his coffee. Cas stares at the papers laid out in front of him, his brows knitted together in concentration.

“Taken alone, the circumstances of these people‘s deaths are not very mysterious,” he states eventually. “But it is highly unlikely all three of them should have died of the same condition, especially one as atypical of their age as this one.”

“I figured so, too. Still, there‘s not one trace of someone or something unnatural killing them off,” Dean says, “no suspicious symbols, no mutilations, not even a freaking hair out of place.”

“There‘s the last victim‘s strange behavior,” Cas answers, sliding a page over to him, “we should start by interrogating his sister-in-law.”

“I guess,” Dean agrees with a sigh. “Though I really could do with some answers about you without going through the whole asking-questions-hunting-things-deal first.” He throws some bills on the table and gets up. As he‘s shrugging on his jacket he stops and throws Cas a demonstrative look.

“As soon as you remember something, anything, no matter how sketchy, you tell me, understood?”

For a second he thinks he can see an indulgent smile play around the corners of Cas‘s lips, making him realize that he‘s trying to give orders to a bona fide angel of the Lord. “Of course I will,” Cas answers calmly.

“Good,” he grumbles, and then they leave the diner side by side.

###

By the time they reach the Impala, Dean‘s mood has pretty much lightened again. Cas is moving next to him, it‘s a beautiful day, there‘s a hunt waiting for him– Life‘s good and he‘s almost whistling as he opens the trunk and re-packs his duffel bag, stuffing guns and rock salt and knives into it.

Except then he realizes what he‘s actually doing, packing _weapons_ to hunt down a potential _serial killer_ and he stops.

“You know, actually,” he says as casually as he possibly can, “maybe one of us should stay at the motel, do some more research. You mind doing that?”

He can feel Cas‘s confused gaze bore into his back, but focuses intently on the bag before him, adjusting and repacking like an overbearing mother packing her son‘s first suitcase for summer camp.

“Research?” Cas echoes, “for what? From all you‘ve told me so far we don‘t even know how these people were killed.”

Dean cringes inwardly, but just slams the trunk shut and gets behind the wheel. So much for subtly trying to accomplish something. Whatever he was trying to accomplish.

“Yeah, whatever,” he shrugs, as Cas is getting into the passenger seat. “You still got your angel stick of death?” Cas shakes his head and Dean hands him Ruby‘s knife. “Then I guess you better take this. And now,” he says as the Impala starts purring under his hands, “let‘s just get this hunt started.”

###

“I don‘t really want to talk about it.”

The woman on the couch opposite them presses her lips together in defiance, her hands clasped tightly in her lap and her shoulders rigid. Dean can‘t help thinking how wrong that posture looks on her, with her soft features framed by wisps of blond hair that have come loose from her braid, the laugh lines around her eyes and the pastel-colored living room surrounding them.

“Mrs. Miller,” he pauses to fold his hands on the table, mirroring her gesture, “I understand that your brother-in-law‘s death has only been a couple of days ago.” She opens her mouth to speak, but he smoothly continues. “There were some suspicious circumstances surrounding his death though and we were just wondering–“

“I had nothing to do with it!“ she bursts out. “I know we had that fight, but why does everyone think– It was a heart attack, for God‘s sake.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, taken aback. “We don‘t think you, well, killed him, Mrs. Miller,” he says, throwing Cas a perplexed look. The angel just frowns. “We were just wondering if you could tell us about that fight you had, thought maybe it could shed some light on this whole affair.”

“Oh,” she says, slumping slightly. “I‘m sorry.” With a sigh she runs her hand through her hair. “It‘s just, all of his relatives and, oh God, his _parents_ have been dropping hints all week, how they just don‘t understand that a young, healthy man like Andrew, in the prime of his life, could have a heart attack, and how he‘d never behave this way and how I must have provoked him somehow...” She trails off, taking another deep breath.

“That behavior they were mentioning, when did that happen? When he was attacking you?” Dean asks.

“Yeah, he– well, it was in the supermarket,” she starts to explain. “I was getting some groceries, and suddenly I turned around and Andrew was standing there. He looked horrible, his clothes rumpled, his hair sticking in all directions, and I think he even had been drinking, his eyes were all–” she pauses, then says, “weird.” At the same time Cas asks, “Black?” Dean frowns.

“Pardon?” She says, turning towards Cas with an incredulous look on her face.

Dean shakes his head at the angel, almost imperceptibly, then says, “Nothing. It‘s not important, Mrs. Miller, please continue.”

“OK,” she says hesitantly, her gaze still fixed on Cas. “Well, he started talking to me, complete nonsense. Then he tried to drag me out of the shop, and when I didn‘t want to follow him, he actually started wrestling me to the ground.” She gives a nervous little laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. “Andrew, of all people. Getting violent? Against a woman, against _me_? I mean, he literally couldn‘t hurt a fly. I have to admit, in some way I can see why his parents think it‘s my fault.”

“What happened then?” Dean asks.

“Some people heard me scream and pulled him away from me. I went home and the next thing I heard he was dead.”

“What was he saying to you? Before the other people came,” Cas cuts in. Dean throws him a fond glance, almost smiling at the focused expression on the angel‘s face.

“Just– just all this weird stuff, I don‘t really think it meant anything,” she says, absent-mindedly playing with the end of her braid. “Something about wanting to leave town with me, and when I refused he kept insisting that this was not what I had said before, even though we _never_ have talked about anything like this. When the other people came to help me he yelled at them how they had no right to stand between us and how he was just trying to save me from Joe– that‘s my husband.” She bites her lip. “To be honest, it was very embarrassing. I really don‘t know what came over him.”

“Mrs. Miller,” Dean says, “you said Andrew‘s parents think you provoked him, and now you say he wanted you to run away with him.” He pauses, grimacing slightly at the high school drama-sound of that last sentence. “Do you know–” he pauses, then continues, pointedly businesslike, ”do you know of any feelings your brother-in-law might have had for you?”

She rolls her eyes. “Detective, it was an open secret Andrew had _feelings_ for me, as you put it so delicately. Which is why his parents seem to think I riled him up and he died of a broken heart or something equally pathetic.” Dean gives a startled little laugh at her word choice that he tries to cover over with a cough, but she just continues with a shrug.

“We dated a couple of times in college before I married his brother. _He_ dumped _me_ , actually, but as soon as Joe and I were together, he suddenly got it into his mind that he and I were meant for each other.”

“I see,“ Dean says. He exchanges a quick glance with Cas, then nods towards the woman. “I think that‘s all we need to ask for now. Thank you for taking the time to answer our questions, Mrs. Miller. We will get back to you in case something comes up.”

“You really think he was murdered?” she asks as they all get up, one eyebrow raised in skepticism.

“Probably not,” Dean shrugs. “But we want to be sure.”

They are walking down the gravel path through the front garden when Cas starts to speak.

“Why did you keep me from asking about his eyes? What if he was possessed?”

Dean throws him a surprised glance. “Well, that‘s pretty much out of the picture, right?”

“Why?” Cas presses on. “He was acting strangely. He attacked someone he wouldn‘t have attacked normally. These are all signs of demonic possession.”

Dean stops dead in his tracks. Cas still walks a couple of steps further before he notices and turns around to face Dean.

“Cas,” Dean says slowly, “there are no demons anymore. After Lucifer died, they were all sent back to Hell. Don‘t tell me you‘ve forgotten that, too.”

Cas‘s eyes widen slightly, but his voice is calm when he answers after a moment. “Apparently I have.”

“Great,” Dean groans, as he falls back in step next to Cas, “you do remember you‘re an angel and we hunt ghosts though, right?”

Cas‘s movements are careful, measured when he opens the gate in the white fence, his gaze fixated on his hands. “It seems only the last three years have vanished from my memory. Maybe I can only remember things I have witnessed while in this body.”

“Yeah, OK, it‘s no big deal anyways.” Dean pats Cas‘s shoulder comfortingly, which earns him a astonished look from the angel and he pulls his hand back quickly. “Let‘s just go on with this thing and we‘ll worry about everything else when we need to.” They‘ve reached the Impala and Dean rounds her, fishing his keys out of his pockets. “You OK with that?”

Cas tilts his head and stares at Dean over the hood of his baby and Dean drops his keys because somehow, no matter how natural it feels to have Cas back and everything after just a couple of hours, he‘s still not ready for _that_ look.

“I am,” Cas says, and it might just be Dean imagining things, but he thinks he can hear something like relief in his voice.

“Alright,” he says gruffly, getting behind the wheel. “So, let‘s get going. Not like we haven‘t wasted enough time already.”

“Where do you want to go to next?” Cas asks as he slides in next to Dean.

“I don‘t know, that Henderson-guy‘s house? He‘s been dead for over a week, so there might not be anything useful left, but at least we‘ll have the house to ourselves.” With a frown he starts the engine. “You know, they‘ve sure got him iced up in that morgue for a long time. Makes you wonder how much the sheriff actually believes all his talk about this being all natural deaths.”

“Maybe there‘s just no one who wants to bury him,” Cas answers calmly.

Dean turns to him, wincing, but Cas is already rifling through the sheriff‘s papers, looking up Henderson‘s address. For a moment he considers discussing everything that‘s not been said with that one sentence, every implication towards Dean and his lifestyle and the lonely grave that‘s waiting for _him_ , sometime, somewhere. But then he sees the little furrows of concentration on Cas‘s forehead, and the way he‘s busy checking between the papers and the map laid out on the dashboard, and he just smirks and gets his baby on the road.

It‘s been so long, he‘s almost forgotten how easy it is, being with someone whose words don‘t contain any hidden meanings aimed to show him things he doesn‘t want to see. Whose words are just that; words.

###

Henderson‘s house is situated on the outskirts of town, in one of the run-down areas Dean passed the day before. Withered, ransacked houses alternate with empty patches of scrawny grass. The few people that are on the streets watch the Impala glide by with apprehensive eyes, before they vanish behind stained curtains and doors that are in dire need of a new coat of paint.

Dean doesn‘t mind. In fact, it‘s perfect for their purpose.

As he pulls up in front of the house he leans forward to get a better view of the empty windows.

“Should be empty,” he says. “The sheriff said he didn‘t have any close family around, no wife, no kids. But you never know, there‘s all kinds of scum who could‘ve settled into that house once they heard it‘s empty.” He squints, searching for hints of movement, of anyone inside the house. “You sure you wanna come?”

He throws Cas a glance, furtive but going for casual and failing miserably at both. He still doesn‘t know where it‘s coming from, this feeling he has to keep the angel out of danger, yet he can‘t shake it off. Not like he‘s trying very hard.

Cas frowns at him, then he just scoffs and gets out of the car wordlessly, leaving Dean stunned.

“Are you coming, Dean?” Cas calls, and Dean can‘t help but smirk as he gets out of the car and follows the angel towards the run-down building.

They don‘t even bother with knocking. Dean already has a credit card out, but when he touches the handle the door swings open without so much as a creak, only to reveal a dusty hall leading to an even dustier living room and a dirty kitchen. Next to a life-sized mirror with cracks in its dull surface is a staircase leading up to the second floor.

“OK,” Dean sighs after they‘ve taken a good look at the mess in front of them. Not like he didn‘t expect it, but still, for once he‘d like to search a perfectly clean house with a freshly baked pie waiting in the oven instead of mildew. “Who‘s gonna do the kitchen?”

Cas looks at him in a way that clearly says, ‚Stop being such a baby‘, then heads straight for the stairs. “I will search the upper rooms,” he calls over his shoulder, leaving Dean to glare after him.

He decides to go through the living room first. Not much there, though, the EMF remains silent, no sulfur, plasma or anything. The only thing even remotely interesting is a dirty wine glass under the couch that bears a distinctive red lip print.

There are two other rooms on the ground level, a dining room and a generously sized storage closet. Dean goes through both of them first before he tackles the kitchen, his breath held and carefully choosing his steps. As he examines mold-covered pots, pans and plates, dirty glasses and cups stacked on every available surface he gets the sneaking suspicion this house hadn‘t been cleaned properly even before Henderson died. Still the only things he finds are more lip prints, on glasses and cigarette butts. Seems like the guy didn‘t live just on his own after all.

He‘s re-checking the living room when he hears a creaking behind him. Immediately he spins around, gun drawn, only to see Cas standing there, unwavering expression and the slightest wonder about Dean‘s skittishness in his blue eyes. With a cough Dean tries to play it down, taking a moment longer than needed to tuck the gun back into his pants. So he‘s probably been overreacting there, but there‘s something about this house that makes him uneasy, a prickling on his skin that makes his hairs stand up.

But there‘s also Cas, standing right next to him, crowding his personal space as usual, and despite everything he can feel the corner of his mouth curl up.

“I‘m done upstairs,” Cas says, frowning when Dean grins at him like a nine-year-old on Christmas Eve.

“Great!” Dean exclaims, then coughs and tries to get back to normal. “So, you find anything?”

Cas gives him another suspicious glance, then holds up the pieces of clothing he‘s been carrying. It speaks volumes of Dean‘s mental state that he hasn‘t noticed those yet.

“Nothing but these,” Cas answers. “Apparently he had a girlfriend that worked as a nurse and was moonlighting as a–,” he gives the garment an inquisitive look, then looks up at Dean with a pleased expression at having sorted this one out, “as a maid I think.”

Dean has to bite his lips in order not to burst out laughing. “Cas,” he grinds out, “these are not–” and oh, how to explain the joys of role-playing to an angel of the Lord? And then he can feel himself blush, actually blush, as he imagines the ensuing conversation. Him trying to explain, maybe even acting out a bit, while Cas looks at him with those big, totally clueless eyes of his. Finally he settles for a meek, “Yeah, that‘s probably what she does.”

“Is there still time to go to the hospital today?”

“The hospital?” Deans asks, slightly terrified, racking his brain for memories of angels mind reading. Because yeah, that last train of thought might‘ve led to some inappropriate thoughts about a certain angel and several role-playing-scenarios he himself might like to act out some day or another (and where had that thought come from?) but the hospital, really?

“To look for her,” Cas clarifies eventually, when Dean doesn‘t continue, instead just stares at him like a rabbit in the headlights.

“For who?”

“The girlfriend. She could know something that could be important for the case,” Cas explains slowly, enunciating clearly, as if explaining something to a five-year-old.

“Of course, I know,” Dean replies irritably, because actually with all this Cas-business going on in his head, he hadn‘t even thought of that. Really awesome hunting there.

“Though I think we should check the bars instead,” he grins as he looks down at the maid‘s uniform in Cas‘s hands.

He can already see Cas frown and open his mouth to reply, when–

A noise from the kitchen.

Placing a finger on his lips he motions Cas to be silent, already moving forward to step between the angel and any possible threat as his instincts kick in. His heavy boots make no sound on the wooden floor as he creeps towards the open door. He can feel Cas follow him soundlessly, can feel him move next to him as he presses himself flat against the wall and carefully peeks around the corner.

From his angle he can only see part of the hall and the kitchen, but it‘s enough. Movement, people, at least three, possibly more. They are rummaging through the drawers and cupboards, and if the noise they are making is any indication they don‘t know that Dean and Cas are here.

Frowning Dean pulls his head back. Cas is looking at him inquisitively. As Dean leans over to whisper in his ear he can smell Cas‘s skin and feel his warm breath on his neck.

“At least three,” he murmurs. “Maybe looters. Maybe not.”

Cas nods slightly, then motions towards the noises, his expression questioning. _Do we attack?_

Dean hesitates, thinking, worrying his bottom lip. There are only three, even without Cas he‘d trust himself to take them on. But: Cas. He feels stupid, because he knows Cas can easily hold his own in a fight, but even the possibility of him getting hurt, no matter how unlikely... Maybe those guys really are just looters, plundering the belongings of a dead man without friends and relatives. Maybe. And maybe not.

And then the decision gets taken out of his hands as heavy footsteps come towards them. Dean hardly has the time to get out his gun when the first of the men walks through the door.

“Hey, you,” he commands, “hands up!”

The guy turns slowly, hands raised sluggishly. As soon as Dean sees the sly grin on his face he knows they‘re in trouble. Then the guy‘s eyes flash black.

It‘s only a split second that Dean is standing there stunned, unable to do anything else than stare at the glossy darkness covering the man‘s entire eye, pupil, iris, whites. Only a split second that his brain is screaming at him, _What the fucking hell?_ , and is frozen into shock at the same time, but it‘s enough.

The first blow hits his jaw and he skids backwards, crashing against the wall with a loud thud that drives all air out of his lungs.

“Cas,” he manages to croak out, then his voice fails him. Through his blurring vision he can see a shadow approaching and throws himself to the side just fast enough to evade the fist being driven into the wall at exactly the point where his head had been moments ago.

With a roll he comes to his feet again, and then his training kicks finally in. Instincts drilled into him through years over years, fights over fights, take over and he charges before the guy even has time to turn around. Burying his hands in the man‘s hair he grabs his head and smashes it into the wall, right next to the imprint of his own crash as hard as he can, once, twice, until dark red smears appear on the faded tapestry. Out of the corner of his eyes he can see Cas, the knife in his hand as he‘s being circled warily by the other two demons, and then the guy‘s elbow hits him squarely in the ribs, knocking the breath out of him for the second time.

Cursing he stumbles backwards, ducking as the other one takes a swing at him. With a frustrated roar Dean charges forward again, this time just running into the guy with his full body weight. It‘s almost like running into the wall a second time, but he pushes on, and then he‘s managed to knock him off his feet. Behind him he hears a loud crash, but he‘s learned his lesson and he‘s not taking his eyes of the man, who‘s now lying sprawled on the floor in front of him. Dropping to his knee on the guy‘s chest he notices in grim satisfaction how he winces, his black eyes narrowing. Then he throws punch after punch at his face, until a dull pain is throbbing through his knuckles, and he still doesn‘t stop. Because it‘s been a while since he‘s been fighting a demon, but he still knows the rules: strike hard, strike fast, and whatever you do, don‘t hold back.

When the guy‘s eyes become unfocused, the black of his eyes whirling like smoke caught in a sudden breeze, Dean takes his chance. Jumping back he brings a couple of feet of safety distance between himself and the blood-spattered figure. A quick glance assures him that Cas is still standing, fighting of the female demon, while the other male one is lying motionlessly between the remnants of the broken table, then his attention snaps back to his opponent.

“Exorcizamus te,” he pants, “omnis … omnis immundus spiritus, omnis – dammit – satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.” The demon is thrashing on the ground, arms flailing, wisps of black smoke escaping his mouth. “Ergo, draco maledicte,” Dean continues triumphantly, his voice steadier now that the words start coming back to him, “Ecclesiam tuam–”

With a roar the demon comes back to his feet, stumbling towards Dean and into him, and then he‘s being thrust across the room, vainly trying to get enough grip to push back against this mass of human flesh pouncing on him. For a short moment he feels the wall against his back again, giving him almost enough leverage but then it breaks away under their combined weight and they tumble into the hall in a heap of tangled arms and legs. Before Dean has even time to gather what happened the demon is upon him, his hands closing around Dean‘s neck in a vice-like grip. Dean claws at the other‘s fingers frantically, trying to pry them from his throat to finish his exorcism, but they won‘t move, won‘t budge. And then dazzling specks of light appear before his blurring eyes, and now he only tries to push the man‘s wrists back far enough to get some air before he faints and all is over. But the other guy is a freaking demon and freakishly strong and even though Dean tries every trick in the book, even knees the guy in the balls a couple of times, he can‘t loosen his steel-like grip, and his vision is going darker by the second. His lungs are burning, his muscles weakening, he can hear his heartbeat thud in his ear, the rush of his blood droning out every other sound. His universe has shrunken, contracted to the pain around his neck and in his lungs, and he knows it will be anytime now, anytime that he‘ll loose consciousness, and even though he fights with everything he‘s worth it‘s not doing anything.

He‘s so out of it, he doesn‘t even notice the black smoke cascading down the demon‘s lips and chin. And then, suddenly, the hands around his neck disappear. The other guy collapses on top of him and he can breathe again, deep, long gulps of delicious air. For a moment he‘s busy just lying on his back and inhaling as deep as he can while being buried under 200 pounds of dead demon vessel. But it doesn‘t take long for the last ten minutes to jump back to the forefront of his mind, more precisely the fact that there had been three demons. And Cas.

“Cas,” he croaks, trying to push the dead weight of himself.

“I‘m here, Dean,” he hears Cas‘s even voice, and then the body is lifted of him and he scrambles to his feet. Still swaying slightly he comes to stand opposite the angel, swiftly surveying the scene of carnage around them. Through the ragged hole in the wall he can see the living room, most of its furniture splintered and trashed, one of the windows shattered. One of the demons is still lying on top of the broken dinner table, the other one‘s collapsed on the stairs, her left arm and leg bending in odd angles, her neck slashed.

Cas catches where he‘s looking. “She was trying to keep me from helping you,” he says, a hint of anger betraying the casualness of his words. Dean jerks his glance away from the body he now realizes he‘s been staring at for a good ten seconds and back to Cas.

“Those were demons,” Dean says, his voice rough, from being choked or from what‘s just happened, he doesn‘t care. Cas tilts his head, waiting for his next words, but Dean doesn‘t have any. He has literally no idea what‘s going on here, but he doesn‘t like it.

“God dammit,” he curses after an awkward silence, running a hand through his hair helplessly. “I mean, how? How could they‘ve gotten out? And why here? Why now? Why–“ So many more questions burning on his tongue, but he‘s interrupted by a violent coughing fit as his strained throat pipes up, doubling over as he‘s hacking his lungs out.

“Calm down,” Cas‘s voice reaches his ears, strong hands on his back and shoulders, warm pressure relaxing his keyed up muscles. And really, the pain fades and Dean looks up with watering eyes, only to be met by a blue wide-eyed gaze full of concern. For a moment everything – the trashed house, the demons and their corpses lying all around, the blood spattered over his shirt – seems far away, sucked away by this oh so familiar stare.

Then the sound of a police siren drifts to his ears. “Shit,” he mutters, straightening up, trying to ignore the feeling of definite regret as Cas‘s hands slip off his body, “we better get out of here fast.”

They gather everything that could be connected to them in a hurry. On a hunch Dean searches the vessels for wallets, but they don‘t have any, neither of them.

“Weird,” he frowns, but then Cas is pulling him out of the house and towards the Impala.

###

When they get back to the motel, first thing Dean does is rummage through his stuff until he‘s found a pack of salt. As he‘s starting to pour lines in front of the doors and windows, Cas frowns.

“What are you doing, Dean?”

“What‘s it look like,” he snaps, irritated. “Cooking dinner? I‘m demon-proofing this stupid room!”

“Those demons are all exorcised or dead,” Cas answers.

“Doesn‘t mean there aren‘t more. Doesn‘t mean they didn‘t follow us here,” Dean says brusquely, concentrating on drawing a line on the narrow window sill. “Damn, I wish I had some hexbags,” he mumbles.

Cas is still standing in the middle of the room, head cocked, watching Dean with detached sobriety. “Do you really think those three weren‘t the only ones?”

“I don‘t know, Cas,” Dean sighs, “but first you show up out of nowhere, and then those black-eyed sons of bitches pay us a visit. And while we‘re investigating the house of a guy who kicked the bucket just days ago under suspicious circumstances? Looks to me like something big‘s going on.”

For a moment there‘s silence, then Cas speaks again as Dean crouches down to put a second line in front of the door because hey, better safe than sorry.

“Maybe you should call your brother,” he says. “Or Bobby Singer. They might know something.”

“Yeah,” Dean drawls, playing for time. Because telling Bobby and Sam about the demons would mean telling them about Cas being back and he‘s not sure he‘s ready for that one yet. Not until he hasn‘t figured some things out for himself.

“Right,” he continues in what he hopes comes off as a casual manner, “but before we do that let‘s get some more facts. No need to ruin their weekend right now. Hey,” he adds after a second, “at least now we know why you‘ve been sent here, I guess. To help me kick some demon-ass.” He grins at the angel broadly, and after a moment of hesitation Cas‘s frown eases away, the corner of his mouth curling up ever so slightly.

“Possibly,” he says and for a moment their eyes lock and Dean can feel that electricity race up and down his spine that he‘s already come to expect from these encounters. Clearing his throat he tears himself away from the hypnotic quality of Cas‘s stare and puts the finishing touches on a line that resembles a minor hill fort by now.

As he‘s done, he gets back up on his feet and stretches, his spine popping audibly after his crouched position. He can‘t help but wince as the movement reminds him of all the cuts and bruises he got from the fight. _From crashing through a God damn wall_ , he thinks darkly. And then he really flinches as cool fingers touch his shoulder, running down the skin of his biceps.

“You‘re bleeding.” The low grumble of Cas‘s voice reaches his ear, shooting straight down his body and doing all kinds of weird things there.

“I‘m fine,” he mutters hoarsely, clearing his throat a couple of times. Which triggers another coughing fit that has him panting for air when it‘s finally over. Cas gives him a complacent look.

“I‘m going to take care of that,” he says, ushering Dean to sit on the bed and then getting the med kit.

“You‘re not just gonna use your angel mojo?” Dean asks with a nod towards the bandages and plasters.

“I don‘t think I can,” Cas replies evenly, his voice not betraying his thoughts. “I think I‘ve not been sent here with all my powers intact.”

“Oh,” is all Dean can say, and then Cas is moving in on him, on his knees on the floor in front of him, tackling a nasty cut on his right forearm that Dean hasn‘t really noticed himself until now.

Cas‘s fingers move softly on his skin, barely grazing his arm as he carefully cleans the wound. The cut is long, stretching from his wrist all the way up, almost reaching the sleeve of his shirt, but superficial. No sewing necessary and silently Dean thanks God for that, because no matter how many times he and Sammy treated themselves like that, it just hurt like hell.

Though right now he‘d actually be thankful for at least a little bit of pain. Anything that‘d take his mind of the way Cas is leaning against him. The way he smells of rain and dust and his vessel‘s aftershave. The way his elbow rests lightly on Dean‘s thigh as he tightens the bandage around his arm.

“Hm?” Dean grunts as he realizes Cas has asked him something.

“Is the bandage too tight?” Cas repeats patiently, inquisitive blue eyes looking up at Dean.

Dean just shakes his head, and then the rusty taste of copper floods his mouth as Cas runs his fingers over the inside of his arm one last time and he bites down on his lip hard enough to draw blood.

“Everything OK?”

“Sure,” Dean replies brusquely. Cas gets up using Dean‘s thigh as support and Dean has to suppress a moan as the angel‘s hand presses down on the inside of his leg, warm and heavy.

He takes a deep breath, digging his fingers into the mattress as deeply as he manages. Then he jumps up and flees into the bathroom.

He definitely needs a cold shower now.

###

The icy drops on his heated skin are a shock, but at least they manage to calm him down. Dean stands in the shower, letting the cold spray wash over his back, his forehead resting on the cool bathroom tiles and tries to think.

In all the years he‘s spent without Cas, all the years he‘s been desperately wishing for him to be back, he‘s never really questioned why. Why it has always been Cas, had to be Cas, and not one of the many other people that died for them. Well, he was pretty clear on the fact that his feelings for the guy exceeded normal friendship, but that‘s where his thoughts stopped, cause Cas was a bona fide angel for God‘s sake, and in Dean‘s book that‘s where all sappy Sam-thoughts of anything going on between the two of them just stopped. Besides, there‘s his male vessel and Dean doesn‘t really swing that way.

So there was nothing that‘s prepared him for the wave of need and want that‘s currently raging through his body.

He‘s thought about Cas, thought about him every fucking second of every fucking day. Has carried his grief, his pain with him until it‘s become a part of him. Even now he can still feel it, a heavy presence in the back of his heart.

But somehow he‘s always successfully banned any thought of Cas in that way from his mind, and now he wonders how he ever could‘ve been that dense. Now that the angel‘s actually here, Dean‘s body apparently has developed a will of its own, and it craves Cas so bad it hurts. Now he can‘t think of him in any other way.

Cas‘s eyes keep haunting his thoughts, only then they are dark with lust as Dean kisses his way up and down his body. They are pressed shut as Cas moans and writhes underneath him. The feeling of his naked skin, his mouth, his cock, it‘s all Dean can think about. Even now, with the cold water chilling him to the bones and his teeth rattling he can feel himself getting hard at the thought of Cas underneath him.

But dammit, Cas has only been back for two days. He can take it slow, or not at all, as long as the angel stays this time. He‘s not gonna mess this one up just because his hormones suddenly go wild.

Anyways: An angel. The first of all creation, God‘s most righteous weapons, the purest of the pure high up in heaven.

And all Dean can think about is how it would taste if he came in his mouth.


	3. Chapter 3

As he pushes through the door to the nearest bar Dean winces at the masses of gathered rednecks there. But there is no way he can wrap his head around the whole “mysterious deaths-demons-Cas is back”-situation without a couple of beers, so he steers Cas to a relatively secluded booth and gets them two bottles of lager. And a double whiskey for himself.

“So,” he says, sliding back into his seat and handing Cas his beer, “you got any idea what‘s going on here?”

“No,” Cas says. “My memory still hasn‘t come back. It‘s very– frustrating.”

“Dude, chill, OK?” Dean says, relaxing back against his seat, “you were already helping me enough today. Gotta admit, without you there those sons of bitches would have kicked my ass pretty badly.”

Cas doesn‘t answer, instead focuses on his beer, but he looks pleased. Which in return makes Dean feel pleased, and then like a chick and then like a complete idiot. Again.

“Yeah, well,” he continues, taking a long gulp of his own bottle, “this whole thing‘s just weird. I mean, where did those demons come from? What did they want in that house? Were they looking for us?” He licks his lips absent-mindedly, re-playing the whole scenario in his head, before he‘s looking back at Cas. Who to his surprise is blushing, then nervously clears his throat.

“It‘s certainly within the realms of possibility,” he replies stiffly.

Dean frowns, but then a new thought occurs to him and he shoots Cas a worried glance. “They were demons, right? Not some Tulpa-kind of thing?”

“No,” Cas answers, “they were real demons. Weak ones, though.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Dean says, gesturing with his beer bottle. “How the hell did those sons of bitches even get here? You‘d think the first demons back on our plane would be top brass, not Hell‘s grunts.”

“Maybe some other, stronger demon escaped first. He or she could have pulled out the ones we met.”

“Great,” Dean groans. “A freakin‘ Borg Queen lurking in the background, just what I need.”

“I don‘t sense a high-ranking demon in this town,” Cas continues, blue eyes distant, “but given the fact I can‘t access all my powers I don‘t think we should rely on it.”

“It just doesn‘t add up,” Dean groans, frustration seeping into his voice, “this just doesn‘t seem like a demon-gig to me. If we hadn‘t met those three I‘d be thinking Shtrigas now, or maybe even a Reaper, but not fucking possession.”

“The last victim showed strange behavior,” Cas points out.

“Yeah, but giving people heart attacks still doesn‘t fit their usual MO. Either they‘ve totally changed battle plans or there‘s still something else running around killing people off.” He grimaces, because honestly neither thought holds much appeal for him.

“They could be trying to perform an invocation. A blood ritual, possibly,” Cas says pensively.

“This just gets better and better,” Dean mumbles around the neck of his bottle, taking another swig. “I‘d never think I‘d say it, but God, I almost miss Sam talking nerdy right now.”

“Maybe you should call him,” Cas suggests calmly, but there is something in his eyes that doesn‘t quite add up with that calm. For a second Dean just stares at him, then shakes his head.

“No,” he says, “like I said, no need to ruin their big party ‚cause of some lousy demons. We can figure this one out by ourselves.”

“A party?”

“Yeah, they got this thing,” Dean says with a dismissive wave of his bottle. “All those hunters and people having this great love-fest at– you know, each spring. Lots of food and alcohol and dancing merrily around a bonfire.” He grins cockily, yet his poor attempt at lightening the mood is entirely lost on the angel, who just frowns at him.

“You mean at the anniversary of Lucifer‘s defeat.”

Dean shrugs, inwardly cursing at angelic intuition. “I guess,” he says as casually as possible.

It takes Cas another moment of intense staring right into Dean‘s soul, then he says, “You‘ve never been there.” A statement more than a question.

“Nothing to celebrate for me,” Dean says shortly. “Lots of good people died in that fight, not to mention the little fact we also started the whole thing. Little bit preposterous to take credit for ending something you caused in the first place, ain‘t it.” He can see Cas open his mouth in protest so he adds brusquely, “It‘s just not a day I wanna spend getting hammered with total strangers pretending I‘m God‘s gift to humanity.” He sips on his whiskey, staring into the mellow amber and concentrating on the burn on his tongue and in his throat.

“You haven‘t changed,” Cas suddenly breaks through his thoughts.

“What?” Dean fumbles for a reply, then tries a grin. “Thank you, I guess? You neither?”

“No, I meant, you haven‘t changed even though the Apocalypse is over. You won. Lucifer is back in hell, Sam is safe. I thought you would be–”

“Happy?” Dean can‘t help the bitterness creeping into his voice.

“More hopeful,” Cas says.

 _But there was no hope left for me_ , he thinks before his brain can catch up and laugh at him for wallowing in self-pity. He chugs back his whiskey, and Cas‘s eyes are still on him, serious and blue, searching. No pity, just curiosity and intense interest and then he says, “I died that day, didn‘t I?”

For a moment Dean is at loss for words. _Yes, you did_ , he wants to say, _and I died right with you. Every time I get reminded of that day, I can see nothing else but your dead, broken body in my arms and the outline of your wings spreading around us. Reminded of how much exactly I lost that day, and of how every day, every second since then I‘ve been wishing I had prevented it somehow._

“Yeah, you did,” he starts, then falters. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but he can‘t get himself to say them. Instead he clenches his fists under the table, sets his jaw tight.

“Gotta take a leak,” he mutters, and heads towards the men‘s rooms. Away from Cas with his oh so wise and oh so clueless eyes and with his words that rip right through his chest and tear down all the defenses he‘s worked so hard on building for the last three years.

###

The mirror above the sink is cracked and blind, yet not enough to hide the sight of Dean’s face as he stands in front of it, leaning heavily on the cool dirty-white porcelain. Drips of water slowly trickle down his chin, over what‘s more of a three-weeks than three-days worth of stubble. Slowly, intentionally he sorts through his memories of the last four years, until he‘s dug out the image of the last time he looked at himself in a mirror this intently. A motel bathroom in Pontiac, Illinois, right after Cas had raised his sorry ass from Hell, staring at the bright red hand-shaped mark on his left shoulder in disbelief.

It's probably not a good sign that he looks even worse now than he did when he came back from 40 years in Hell.

His features have sharpened, he realizes, and not just because four years have added their fair share of lines around his eyes and mouth. No, he‘s lost weight, and if there wasn‘t a lot of fat on his body to begin with, it‘s all gone now and more, to the point where his body will soon feed off his muscles to sustain itself. But it‘s his eyes that really give him away, sunken deep into their sockets. They are still the same greenish color he remembers, but something inside of them is just missing, and he doesn‘t even know what it is.

Now as he‘s standing in that dingy restroom he suddenly realizes why Sam keeps shooting him these worried glances, why Bobby offered him a place to stay and a job, why all the women he took back to his motel recently tried to hold him tight and comfort him.

He looks like he‘s barely holding on and he hasn‘t even realized it.

 _Wow_ , he thinks, _way too feel sorry for yourself_. If Sammy could see him like that he‘d cry tears of joy, but Dean can muster up only mild distaste for his chick-flick moment. Somehow he has the feeling that if he doesn‘t get it now, if he doesn‘t get his act together pretty soon, he‘ll be dead by the end of the year.

But now Cas is back and everything‘s changed.

For a heartbeat he almost smiles at his reflection and then he remembers how he just left their table and groans. Not his best move, but if Dean‘s lucky the guy hasn‘t even figured out yet what his sudden departure really means. The image of Cas in his trenchcoat and suit sitting out there, clutching his empty beer bottle in one hand, hair sticking in all directions and tie hanging precariously around his neck like it‘s just begging to be pulled off cheers him up considerably. With a last skeptical glance at the mirror he heads back to the main room.

Enough self-pity for one day. There‘s an angel to be inebriated.

As he steps back into the main room he sees Cas at the bar, getting new drinks and a feeling of pride swells in his chest. His angel is getting them new alcohol.

There‘s a slutty blonde standing next to Cas, eying him surreptitiously. When she presses up against his side, long red fingernails running slowly over the back of his hand, Dean narrows his eyes in anger. Even though he‘s not quite sure on the whole ‚his angel‘-deal yet, no one feels him up while he‘s around, that‘s for sure.

He can see clearly how the angel looks up in surprise at the woman‘s touch. How she leans forward, presenting ample cleavage in a low-cut bodice. Cas‘s lips move but Dean‘s too far away to hear the words themselves. The woman just smiles at Cas uneasily but the guy next to her, a heavy-built guy with a shaved head and a bull‘s neck that up to now seemed to be just another drunk, suddenly spins around and fixates Cas with blood-shot eyes.

“What the hell?” he roars, rolling his massive form from his stool in front of Cas. The woman anxiously slips to the background, while her boy-friend pulls himself up in front of the much smaller guy in the trenchcoat. “You hitting on my girl, asshole?”

“I was merely correcting an assumption on her side,” he hears Cas say, and he‘s almost there, but then the guy draws back his fist–

Dean remembers how it felt when he punched Cas, back in the angelic green room. Didn‘t really matter through the mess that was the next days, but his hand hurt for a week. Like hitting a brick wall, literally, and now there‘s this guy punching Cas right in the face, and Cas–

Cas stumbles back, almost going down if not for the bar that supports him as he crashes against it.

Then Dean‘s at his side and there‘s nothing he wants to do more right now than look after Cas, but there‘s still this fucking son of a bitch yelling at them. So with a punch of his own that bundles all his fury he sets him flying so hard, his back hits the wooden floorboards with an audible thump.

With one swift step Dean is above him, one knee on his chest, one hand twisted into the collar of his shirt, the other one raised menacingly.

“Back off,” he growls, “and next time, keep that slut of yours in check before she goes off looking for alternatives.”

The guy has paled visibly, of from pain or fear or both, but Dean has to give him that, he doesn‘t scare easy.

“He your boyfriend or what?” he spits out, bucking against Dean‘s grip, trying to wrestle free, “‚Cause we don‘t like your kind here, so you better–”

Dean knocks him out cold right there and then. Not like he gives a rat‘s ass about that kind of talk from a guy who‘s just hit Cas. When he gets up, breathing heavily, red hot rage still clouding his mind and vision, the silence around him rings loud in his ears. A circle of people has formed around them, and in between the shocked and alarmed faces he sees too many angry ones.

“Let‘s go, Cas,” he murmurs to the angel who has stepped next to him, swaying slightly.

His right hand throbs with satisfaction as they leave the bar together.

###

He waits till they are safe in the car and have put a sufficient distance between themselves and the bar.

“What the hell just happened back there?” he asks incredulously, turning to where Cas sits next to him, gingerly feeling his bruised jaw. Seeing the angry red mark on his chin makes the rage inside Dean boil up again so hard, he has to set his sight back on the street, gritting his teeth against the urge to just turn the car around, get back into that bar and end that dick once and for all.

“I don‘t know,” the angel finally answers, his voice blank with confusion. “He knocked me down.”

“You don‘t say.” With a huff Dean grips the steering wheel tighter. “Cas, please tell me you‘re not being kryptonited by some sorry-ass demons all of a sudden or so God help me, I will find Fate and punch it in the face.”

“I– I don‘t know,” Cas repeats, helpless frustration seeping into his voice. As Dean shoots him a quick glance he has given up on his face, his jaw set tight and his brows knitted together.

He turns his eyes back on the road, racking his brain for something to say, because getting your ass kicked by a puny human first time in millennia can‘t be easy when you‘re a freakin‘ angel of the Lord. But even with his considerable powers of denial and blatant devil-may-care-attitude he can‘t really wave this off anymore. Something‘s wrong with Cas, they both know it, and they have no idea what or why.

Silence hangs heavy between them until Dean clears his throat, desperate to break the awkward atmosphere in the car. “What did you say to her anyways to get that guy so worked up?” he asks.

For a moment the tension seems to be rising, but then he hears the deep gravel of Cas‘s voice. “I told her that I was sorry, but that I was already there with someone else and didn‘t want to leave and engage in sexual activities with her,” he says in complete seriousness. Dean can‘t help himself, it‘s not even that funny, but he bursts out laughing.

“That‘s my angel,” he says as he‘s calmed down, still smiling. “No running off with strange women when you‘re there with me.”

Silence.

“I mean, uh, not with me in a– you know, in that way,” he rushes out, the words stumbling over each other. “I just meant, when you‘re there drinking beer with me. You know, as in friends having a beer. That‘s all.”

As there continues to come nothing but utter silence from the other side of the car he risks a furtive glance at the angel. Cas is looking at him, his wide eyes unnaturally bright in the dim moonlight, intense blue focused on Dean that makes shivers run down his spine. It‘s pretty dark in the car, but he could swear Cas‘s blushing. Then his head snaps back front, his eyes going blank again.

“I... see,” he says slowly and Dean has to resist the sudden urge to hit his head on the steering wheel.

Fortunately their arrival at the motel means he‘s spared the embarrassment of further attempts at covering up his slip. When they enter their room he points to the bed.

“Sit down,” he tells Cas, then goes straight for the med kit.

The angel obeys reluctantly. “It‘s nothing,” he says dismissively, “It will heal by itself.”

“You said it yourself, Cas, half of your powers are AWOL. So what if it doesn‘t heal? We‘re not gonna take a chance of you catching some infection.” Now that they are in the bright neon-light of the motel room he can see that Cas‘s lip is split, and his left hand is covered in scratches and little cuts where he landed in broken glass.

He crouches down in front of Cas, laying out the med stuff at his side. Gently he takes Cas‘s left hand in his, carefully turning it to get a good view of all the bruises. Most of the cuts are superficial, just one right across his palm goes deeper, blood already drying on the torn skin.

Carefully he starts cleaning the skin. Neither of them says a word, the only sound in the room the occasional creaking of the bed springs when Cas shifts his weight. Dean tries his best to stay concentrated on not hurting Cas, but it‘s kind of hard when he can feel the angel‘s gaze firmly fixated on his hands. Makes his neck tingle, a shiver running down the inside of his spine, pooling in his stomach, making it hard to breathe.

When he‘s done with Cas‘s hand he sits next to him on the bed. He doesn‘t trust his voice too much right now, so he just gently cups Cas‘s face, slightly angling his head to allow him better view of the cut on his lip. Softly he brushes his thumb over the chafed skin there, his mind going blank when he feels Cas shudder under his hands.

“Sorry,” he says, and it comes out a lot hoarser than he intended it to. Still he doesn‘t move his fingers, can‘t, really, his gaze boring into Cas who looks at him with the darkened eyes of his fantasies. Cas‘s lips part slightly, and Dean‘s throat goes dry as he swallows, hard, trying to get back his slackening grip on reality and on his rational mind. Then he just thinks, _what the hell_ , leans forward and presses his lips to Cas‘s.

Hesitance, for a fraction of a second. But before Dean can even think to pull back, Cas leans forward, into his touch. Moves his lips, and somewhere through the haze in his brain Dean marvels at how soft they are, warm and pliant under his own. Then Cas slides closer, or maybe Dean does, hands in soft hair and fingers raking along his own scalp, and next thing he realizes he‘s lying on the bed, with an armful of angel pressed up against him.

And that‘s his last coherent thought for the next hour.

###

Later, much later, Dean lies awake, watching Cas in the pale moonlight filtering through the curtains.

The angel is sleeping. Somewhere in the far region of his brain he‘s a little bit worried about that, but decides to blame the last hours for it. He himself is pretty exhausted, too, if he‘s honest. Still, sleep is far from his mind.

Because suddenly it hits him: This is it. This is the point where he can turn his back on his old life full of crap and live like a normal person for once.

The apocalypse is over and most of those evil sons of bitches he used to hunt have either died while it lasted, or perished in the aftermath, or are hiding in their holes and licking their wounds. For a hunter with lots of pent-up rage and serious anger-management issues it‘s been almost ridiculously hard to find something decent to hunt nowadays.

The whole Sam-the boy king of Hell-issue had somewhat solved itself when Lucifer bit it.

Sam, Bobby, even Rufus for Christ‘s sake, all the survivors have carved their niche, living somewhere in relative peace and quiet. It looks like Sam‘s about to get tied down for good with that Rachel-chick, and it‘s been a long time since Dean has felt the need to take care of his little brother. Hell, these days it‘s probably the other way round.

And now Cas is lying next to him, his dark hair mussed and his chest slowly rising and sinking in the rhythm of his even breathing.

This is it. The point where he turns around, begs Cas to stay, on his knees if he has to, and then they will be happy together. The thought, the mere possibility of living a life that‘s not dictated by blood and gore and pain and self-sacrifice makes his head swim, like his whole reason of existence turned upside down. So what if it won‘t be the white picket fence and the 2.5 kids that Dean always dimly imagined at the back of his mind, he doesn‘t care.

No matter what the future holds for him, he‘ll figure it out, now that he has his angel back at his side.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning they go to the same diner they went the day before, sitting in the exact same booth. Dean even orders the same, only this time he hardly manages to finish everything off between not being able to take his eyes off Cas and grinning his head off.

“Dean, are you alright?” the angel asks him after Dean almost chokes on a piece of pie that went down the wrong way when Cas licked his lips.

“Yeah,” he says roughly, trying unsuccessfully to keep his good mood out of his voice, “yeah, I‘m good.” He smiles at the angel, in a way he hasn‘t smiled in so long, the crinkling of skin around his eyes feels weird, unfamiliar. And Cas– Cas actually smiles back, an almost incomprehensible raising of the corners of his mouth, a hint of amusement sparkling in his eyes. Maybe Dean is reading too much into this, but he even seems to be sitting more relaxed, leaning against the leather cushion in his back, his usually rigid posture just the slightest bit less stiff.

Cas‘s smile deepens, making Dean realize that he has been gaping at him for the last five minutes. With a wink he shoves another forkful of pie in his mouth.

“So,” he says once he‘s swallowed, “what do you wanna do today? You know, Monument Valley‘s actually just around the corner. You up for some sight-seeing? Drive around a bit, grab some burgers, maybe shack up in a nice cozy motel?” He grins at Cas broadly.

Cas raises an eyebrow in mild reproach, but the smile continues to glint in the corner of his eyes. “We still have a hunt to finish,” he says evenly. Dean winces.

“Yeah, about that–” he starts, then falters. How do you explain an angel of the lord, all righteous and dutiful, that you‘re not into hunting down evil anymore but instead dreaming of doing the whole white-picket-fence-thing with him? Besides, something inside of him stirs uncomfortably at the thought of leaving this unfinished, at the people that are going to be hurt for certain if they don‘t stop this now.

“I guess we should check out that stripper,” he gives in with a tiny sigh. At Cas‘s frown he corrects himself, “The girlfriend, I mean. Guess that means we have to go back to that bar.” He grimaces at the thought. No way the owner of that place is going to give them any information easily after what went down there last night. But then Cas just nods gravely and Dean starts grinning again. After all they‘re not only more or less certified Federal Agents on an important investigation, it looks like they‘re on a mission from the man upstairs himself. No way some redneck ale-draper can stand against that.

###

“You?” The barkeeper from the night before eyes them warily through the barely opened door, his brows furrowing at the sight of their suits. “Didn‘t think I‘d see you here again anytime soon.”

“Mr. Miller?” Dean asks, keeping his voice all business. “You own this bar?”

“Who wants to know?”

FBI,” Dean says, flashing his ID, “I‘m Agent Grech and this is my partner, Agent Baker.” He nods towards Cas, who masters the badge flipping much better than the last time. “Could we have a minute of your time, Sir?”

The guy pales a little bit, his eyes narrowing at the sight of their IDs, but he opens the door fully and leads them inside. In daylight the bar looks even more run-down, the smell of stale beer and old smoke mingling with harsh sunlight. The legs of the chairs, propped up on their tables, cast long spidery shadows over the glistening floor. A mop and a bucket full of water stand next to the bar.

“Sorry to interrupt, we won‘t take much of your time,” Dean says, gesturing towards the cleaning utensils.

“Yeah, uhm, that‘s OK, was gonna take a break anyways,” the guy says hesitantly. He motions towards the bar stools for them to sit, then gets behind the counter himself. He takes out two beers and places them before them, then halts with a skeptical glance. “That shit about no booze on-duty‘s a joke, right?”

“Yeah, sure” Dean grins, because he doesn‘t know with the real feds, but it is with him.

He takes a long swig and takes out the file he got from the Sheriff. He leafs through the pictures until he finds the one of the first victim and slides it over the table.

“You knew that guy?”

The guy doesn‘t even look at the photo, instead staring at Dean in surprise. “You‘re not here about yesterday?”

 _Right_ , Dean thinks wryly, _because the FBI regularly investigates bar brawls._

“No. Well, we could be,” he says – because seriously, this guy makes it so easy – then leans forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial rumble, “but truth be told, we‘d be in deep shit ourselves if our superiors found out about this, so we‘d rather keep it low-profile. We‘re not really supposed to go around starting bar fights, if you catch my drift?”

“Yeah, sure,” Miller says, nodding earnestly. “I totally understand. Thanks for not making a big deal out of it, you know, not arresting those guys and so on.”

“Great,” Dean says, straightening again. “So, about Bill Henderson.”

“Sure, I knew him,” Miller says, looking down at the photo. “One of our regulars, came here all the time.”

“There have been hint he‘s been seeing a woman before he was murdered. You got an idea who that could‘ve been?”

“A woman?” Miller asks incredulously.

Dean nods. “Yeah, that so improbable?”

“Well,” the guys answers hesitantly, “he was bragging about this hot chick he was seeing, but I gotta admit, we thought he was just making stuff up. Wouldn‘t have been the first time. And he wasn‘t exactly the kind of guy that could‘ve scored with a woman like that. He had this-” the guy falters, searching for words to put it delicately, then just spills it. “Well, he was really into porn.”

Dean almost chokes on the beer he‘s just been sipping.

“I see. Adult movies,” Cas says matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, right.” Miller casts Cas a wary glance. “He was just one of these guys, he had a huge collection and he kept talking about it 24/7. No self-respecting woman would have been seen dead within ten feet of him.”

“Right,” Dean finally regains his voice, “so he kept talking about her but none of you ever saw her, that right?”

Miller nods, wiping the bar in front of Dean with a slight frown. “Like I said, didn‘t think she was real.”

Dean takes another sip of his beer and thinks back to the costumes, the dirty old house and the demons attacking them.

Maybe she wasn‘t.

###

“So, Brittany,” Dean gives the teenage girl on the couch opposite them a comforting smile, “you were Megan‘s best friend, right?”

“Well, I guess so,” she says, hesitating. Dean deepens his smile, turning it into the kind of smirk that used to conjure women into his bed within the blink of an eye. The girl blushes slightly.

“I mean, we were kind of close, but then she started being all weird and creepy.”

Cas leans toward Dean, eyebrow raised. “Weird and creepy,” he repeats meaningfully. Dean has to bite back a smile as he nods gravely, then turns back to the girl. “When did she start behaving this way?” he asks her.

“Well, like, two weeks before she died? All of a sudden she was being really secretive and, like, all holier-than-thou. And she kept making these lewd comments about Edward.” Brittany scrunches her face up in disgust, clearly more appalled by this than by Megan‘s untimely death.

“A classmate of yours?” he asks, sympathetic.

She gapes at him in shock, then finds her voice again in an indignant sputter. “Edward Cullen? Twilight?” She shoots him a look that clearly says wherever he lived the last years, it couldn‘t have been this planet.

“You gotta be kidding me,” he mutters, then louder: “So Megan had the hots for this Vampire-guy, doesn‘t seem too uncommon among teenage girls today, right?” He tries to placate her with another smirk, but clearly he‘s gambled away all good-will she had for him.

“Edward is awesome,” she says, turning pointedly towards Cas, “because his love for Bella is pure and beautiful. But Megan was talking about him, like, really dirty. Like that one time,” her voice lowers to a conspiratorial whisper, Cas and her leaning forward and Dean has to bite back a grin forming at the picture, “she said that–” and then she continues with a story that seems to come right out of some of the worst hardcore SM-bondage porn Dean ever had the not-really-pleasure of witnessing, not even blushing in the process.

While he‘s left gaping in shock at the delicate, innocent-looking fourteen-year-old in front of him, Cas nods gravely. “I see,” he says.

The girl smiles at him, a little bit wickedly, Dean thinks, and pulls something out from under the pillow next to her. “You know,” she says to Cas, pointedly ignoring Dean, “I actually wasn‘t gonna give this away, cause it‘s, like, the last thing I have that reminds me of her? But you‘re cool, so, here.” She hands him a notebook, the cover faded and worn-out, sheets of paper sticking out in weird angles. “It‘s Megan‘s diary. Maybe you can find something in there, because, if she was really murdered, then I hope you get that dick and make him pay.”

Cas accepts the book with a grave nod of his head, then turns and gives Dean a smug look, one eyebrow raised and the corners of his mouth curled upwards almost unnoticeably.

Dean just wants to kiss him right then and there.

###

He manages to wait till they are back in the Impala, then pulls Cas over into a long, heated kiss that leaves both of them breathless and flushed.

“Lots of research today,” he murmurs throatily into Cas‘s ear, feeling him shiver under his breath, “you wanna go think things over at the motel?”

“I think that would be acceptable,” Cas answers gravely, a blush spreading over his cheeks. Dean grins, steals another kiss and accelerates.

Much later he‘s lying flat on his back in between tangled sheets, Cas‘s warm body lined up against his, skin on skin and pulse on pulse and Cas‘s breath on his neck. The afternoon sun is shining through the threadbare curtains, gilding the fine hairs on the arm Cas has slung over his waist. Gently Dean runs his fingers over the soft skin there, marveling at the feel of Cas under his touch. Maybe it‘s because everything went so fast from drinking himself into an early grave to feeling like the king of the world (and yeah, so he watched Titanic once, but just to find out why it was supposed to be such a big deal), but he has the distinct feeling he‘s never gonna get enough of this. And now he‘ll never have to, and that thought fills him with a peaced-out happiness he hadn‘t even known existed.

He‘s still thinking about how much of a girl he has become, and how Sam would squeal with joy if he found out, and then about how thinking about his brother while being in bed with his own sexed-up angel is actually kind of gross, when he feels Cas shift slightly.

“Dean.”

“Yeah?” he answers lazily, his fingers continuing to draw patterns on Cas‘s arm.

“These people, they could have been possessed by demons. It would explain their erratic behavior.”

Dean doesn‘t really understand how they‘ve gotten from post-coital euphoria back to demon-possessed hillbillies in under a minute, but he knows that tone of determination in Cas‘s voice. He sighs.

“Maybe, but it doesn‘t explain their deaths. Demons may let their meat suits get shot, stabbed or pushed off buildings, but they usually don‘t get heart-attacks.” He shifts a little to pull Cas closer before he continues. “But you‘re right, there‘s definitely a pattern here. The art teacher and his sister-in-law, the teenage chick and that Vampire-dude, the porn master and his invisible girlfriend...”

“A siren?”

“I don‘t think so,” Dean says slowly, hesitantly, “they usually don‘t impersonate someone their victims already know. Could be a shapeshifter, though.”

“We didn‘t find any remains of skin,” Cas retorts absent-mindedly. “Something doesn‘t add up. I have this feeling–”

Suddenly he sits up abruptly and climbs out of the bed, pulling on his clothes. Dean protests but Cas ignores him and ruffles through their papers instead.

With a sigh Dean resigns to the fact that the sexy times are over and gets up himself. Moments later he steps up behind the angel, pulling a shirt over his head and peeking over Cas‘s shoulder. There‘s a piece of paper in Cas‘s hands, one of the pages Brittany gave them. It‘s a sketchy drawing, ballpoint pen on graph paper, unskilled, shaky lines yet surprisingly detailed. Looks like just a normal house to Dean, two-storied, a lawn, a mailbox next to a tree that could be a willow. Yet Cas is staring at it with a frown on his face as if this little piece of paper would hold the key to all their problems.

“What is it?” Dean asks, softly, because the look in Cas‘s eyes – kind of spooking him out, actually, the way the angel seems utterly focused on this crappy drawing.

“I have the feeling I have seen this before,” Cas replies, not stopping his attempts to burn holes through the paper with his eyes.

“This? Really?”

“Not this drawing,” Cas says, his brows furrowing even deeper, “but something like it, something–” he stops and starts rummaging through the Sheriff‘s documents. Finally he pulls out one of the crime scene photos, a detail shot of the art teacher‘s bed room, showing his limp form draped over the mattress. Cas puts his finger on the wall behind the dead guy‘s head.

“There.”

Dean leans forward, eyes narrowing. The photograph is only black and white and grainy and slightly blurred, but still he can make out the picture hanging on the wall pretty well. It shows the same house as Megan‘s drawing.

“Wow,” he says, straightening up again, “seems like you haven‘t lost all your mojo if you were able to spot that, Cas.”

Again the angel ignores him, gathering up the two pieces of paper and stuffing them into his trench-coat. He turns around to fixate Dean with an electric blue stare.

“We have to find this house, Dean.”

“Now?” Dean grimaces. “You sure you don‘t wanna–”

“Now.”

Dean sighs and shoots the deserted bed a longing look.

“Alright.”

###

Four hours later the sun is already low on the horizon, a golden reflection on the hood of the Impala as she rolls through the outskirts of Osiris. They‘ve been driving in concentric circles first, starting at the city center, then widening until they‘ve covered the whole town. But for the last hour or so Dean‘s just been steering his baby aimlessly through deserted streets, following Cas‘s brisk clues.

“Look, Cas,” he starts for what feels like the tenth time, “why don‘t we just give it up for today and head back to the motel.”

Just as before, he‘s being ignored completely by the angel who‘s perched on the edge of his seat, leaning forward and squinting into the setting sun with narrowed eyes. Dean knows how focused he can be at times, hell, he‘s enjoyed being the focus of that intense concentration just a couple of hours ago, but this is slowly starting to freak him out.

“We could drive back,” he continues as there‘s no answer. He knows he‘s babbling, but next to slightly freaked out he‘s also bored and a little bit turned on. “Maybe even get some whipped cream on the way back, maybe some pie–”

“There.”

If it was anyone else than Cas, Dean‘d be seriously insulted by now. So he just leans forward with a sigh, squinting against the evening light. Cas is pointing towards a narrow street, barely more than a farm track, leading of the highway in a 90° angle. Tufts of green leaved branches block most of his view, but Dean can still glimpse a house about half a mile down the street.

“You‘re sure that‘s it?” he asks doubtfully.

“Yes.”

Just one word, but even though minutes ago he was short of turning around the Impala and heading back to the motel, Dean just sighs once more and takes a turn.

The path is uneven and bumpy, big pebbles breaking through the sun-baked mud. He steers his baby carefully, concentrating hard to avoid stones and potholes. He can feel Cas fidget on his seat, nervous or impatient or even scared, and suddenly he‘s afraid. He has no idea why, or from what, he just knows that seeing the angel like this, it makes the hair on the back of his neck bristle and dread clump in his gut.

They leave the car before the last bend. The low sound of the doors clicking shut resounds like a gunshot in the green silence around them.

After a few steps they can clearly see the house and the anxiety in Dean flares up until he can feel his skin crackle with tension, like hordes of tiny ants tip-toeing down his arms. It looks exactly like on the pictures. Two stories, the white paint slightly chipped, its roof the scintillating green of rusting copper. A couple of steps away there‘s an old willow, her hairlike branches slowly wafting in the evening breeze.

Slowly they walk up to the front door. Their path is flanked by prickly plants Dean vaguely remembers as thistles, and grass that looks too sharp and spearlike for southern Utah at this time of year.

Cas reaches for the door bell when Dean puts a hand on his arm, holding him back.

“Cas,” he says faltering. Under his fingers he can feel the rough texture of Cas‘s trench, the softer slide of cotton underneath, the warmth of his skin. Cas‘s eyes are as other-worldly blue and as enigmatic as always and Dean bites his lip.

“Nothing,” he mumbles, taking a step backwards.

The ringing of the door bell is a faint tinkle far away inside the house. They listen to its echo fading away, the woods around them holding their breath with them. One heartbeat and an eternity later there are quiet steps towards the door, and then it swings inward and the sheriff‘s secretary is standing in front of them.

“Oh,” Dean says, his brows twitching together. The woman and Cas stare at him questioningly, and there is something so bizarre about this combination that it breaks him out of his surprise. He clears his throat, coughing a couple of times for good measure, then flashes his best professional FBI-smile.

“Sorry to bother you, miss,” he says, “but there seems to have been a mixup with some of the paperwork. The sheriff sent us here, meant you could maybe help us clarify some things.”

For a second he thinks he sees a smile flash over her face, her lips lazily curling upwards. But then she looks at him with nothing but mild annoyance.

“And this couldn‘t wait till Monday?” Her words bear a slight lisp he notices only now. A barely audible fracture in tone that makes her voice sound almost like a hiss.

One part of his mind, the bigger one, examines her closely, searching for hints and signs he doesn‘t even know. The other one makes him smile slightly compunctiously, lies tumbling out of his mouth with ease as he makes up a story about some deadline and a boss that expects them back at D.C. beginning of next week.

She smiles then, her corner teeth pricking the bottom of her lower lip.

“I see,” she says, turning around and motioning them inside, “come in, please.”

Inside the house is dark, the air moist and cool on their skin. As he follows the woman through the dusty hallway into the living room Dean keeps sneaking glances around, trying to get some clue as to why of all people, this woman has stepped back into the story.

But there‘s nothing, just an ordinary, fairly empty house.

They enter the living room and she immediately sinks into an armchair surrounded by flowers Dean thinks might be lilies. As she drops her shoes and draws her legs up under her body he suddenly realizes how fluidly she moves, bending bonelessly, and his skin crawls involuntarily.

“Please take a seat,” she says.

He sits down on the couch next to Cas. The leather is cold and clammy even through the thick material of his jeans. But Cas is right next to him, warm and sure. Their hands only the barest fraction of an inch apart, and he sneaks a glance to the angel only to see him glancing back. The smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth is barely there, but the pressure on his chest eases away, and he‘s breathing freely again.

“I‘m sorry I can‘t offer you anything,” the woman says, smiling. “I wasn‘t expecting company.”

“No problem, ma‘m,” Dean responds generously, secretly relieved. If this woman really is a siren, he was not intending on walking into the same trap again, but this spares him the trouble of openly refusing her offer.

The woman smiles again, deep and intimate. This is not the mousy secretary Dean met at the sheriff‘s office. She may still look like her, but every aspect of her behavior, every smile, every move of nimble fingers, every languid breath she takes has changed, sets him on edge. And the looks she gives them, they are too knowing, too predatory.

But Dean‘s the hunter here.

“So,” she says, “the papers.”

“Yeah,” Dean starts, his mind already putting together a little story about why they don‘t have them here, and about what‘s wrong with them in the first place, when suddenly Cas places his pictures on the table. Carefully he slides them over to her.

“We found these in the victims‘ personal belongings.”

“I see.” Her tone is neutral, almost amused. She leans forward and throws the images a quick glance, barely acknowledging them. “Well, that looks like my house, doesn‘t it?”

“Yes.”

She looks at Cas, still with the same derisive calmness, their eyes locking. Dean sits there, and somehow he has the feeling this game, the game he‘s so used to, the game whose rules he‘s known inside out since his sixth year, has just been taken away from him and he‘s a mere bystander in something he doesn‘t quite get yet.

He clears his throat. “So you care to explain why murdered persons have pictures of your house?” he says with a little bit more force than necessary.

“Oh, that‘s easy.” She smiles. “All my victims have visions of my lair sooner or later.”

There‘s a split fraction of a second where he can‘t believe what he just heard. Then he‘s on his feet, gun drawn and trained on her. Next to him he can feel Cas jump up, can hear the slithering of Ruby‘s knife out of its hilt.

“Don‘t move!” Dean yells. “Who are you? What are you?”

“Relax, Dean,” she says calmly, leaning back into her chair, “you‘re not going to kill me.”

“How the hell do you know my name?”

She just smiles. But then there‘s Cas‘s voice next to him, calm despite their situation.

“You‘re not a siren.”

“Bonus points for you, my child,” she says, smiling as if she made a joke both of them are too stupid to get. “You‘re right, I‘m not. I‘m so much more than these amateurs. Copycats, really.”

“You killed those people,” Dean snarls, “how? You‘re a shapeshifter then? A demon?”

“Wrong both times,” she drawls. “Those three at that house were just to distract you a bit. Couldn‘t have you come here too early, could I?”

“You tell me right now what‘s going on here or I swear to God, I‘m just gonna blow your brains out now and leave it at that!”

“Dean, Dean,” she shakes her head condescendingly, “I already told you, you‘re not going to kill me.”

“Wanna bet?”

“You‘re not going to kill me,” she continues, ignoring him completely, “because this is how I work:”

“Shut up,” Cas says, quietly. Dean‘s head whips around, staring at him. The angel is pale, even paler than usual, his eyes wide and trained at the woman before them.

“Cas–” he starts, bewildered, but then the woman continues, unfazed by their exchange.

“I walk into people‘s dreams and I dig up the thing they want most, even if they don‘t know it themselves.”

“Shut up,” Cas murmurs feebly, but she just smiles.

“I take their memories, their hopes and love and everything and I meld it with my essence to create a child I send them. The person they want most, and I give it to them. I lean back and wait, watching how the stronger their emotions get, the faster it sucks them dry to feed me. And the beauty of it, really my favorite part, is that even if people realize what‘s happening, they don‘t even want to fight it.”

Her stare is unblinking, intense, her yellow eyes turning to Dean, drilling into his mind while her smile eats away at the borders of his being.

“They don‘t even want to fight it,” she says, “because if they would, what I gave them would vanish with me.”

The silence is so deep, it‘s almost palpable, weighing heavy on his skin and lungs and blood. Dean looks at Cas, quiet now, staring at the woman like a deer in the headlights. Slowly he turns back and releases the safety on his gun, the sharp click shooting straight through his chest and stomach. He grabs the weapon with both hands and narrows his eyes as he carefully aims for the center of the woman‘s forehead. His index finger curls around the trigger, only a hair‘s breadth away from letting the shot go loose.

His brain is blank, his mouth dry, but he forces the words out. Has to, because he needs to hear them as much as he needs to speak them.

“No reason for me to spare you. There‘s nothing you‘ve given me.”

“Oh really,” she hisses, her smile turning malicious. Her gaze wanders behind him, towards Cas, and Dean has to close his eyes for a second, swallow down the bile in his throat.

“You‘re sure about that?”

For a second the thought of just pulling the trigger is overwhelming. _Just one little push_ , his subconscious whispers. Just one little twitch of his finger and he can wake up from the nightmare this trip has become. Just one little movement to make it all go away. His arms are trembling, the muscles of his neck so taut it hurts. His heartbeat is dull and deafening in his ears, drowning out every other sound except Cas‘s ragged breaths behind him.

With a violent snap he pushes the safety back on, jerking the gun downwards. Turns around. Cas is staring at him, his eyes so dark they seem almost black and his expression so helpless, so desperate, it would break his heart right there and then.

Would, normally, but right now... Right now his insides are frozen so deep in shock, his mind so numb, he really can‘t feel a thing but sickening, all-encompassing nausea.

The woman‘s laughter follows him as he walks out of her house. He doesn‘t look back to see if Cas is following him.

###

He stomps into the motel room without a word, grabs his bag and starts gathering his stuff immediately.

“What are you doing, Dean?” Ca– the other one asks as he follows him, confusion clear in his voice.

“What does it look like?” Dean snaps from his position on the floor, where he‘s checking for any remaining clothes under the bed. “We‘re getting outta here now.”

“What about that woman? Are you just going to let her live?” the other one, oh dammit, Cas asks.

Dean pulls himself up to his full height again, glaring at him in disbelief. “Did you not hear what she said? I kill her, you die. So no, I‘m not planning to kill her.”

He grabs the bag, now almost full, and heads to the bathroom, accentuating every word with another item that‘s shoved in with the rest of his belongings. “We‘re getting out of here and that‘s my last word.”

Cas is still standing in the middle of the room, bewildered expression on his face, his wide blue eyes following every one of Dean‘s movements. “I don‘t–,” he starts to speak, his voice failing him. He lowers his head and looks again at Dean, who has ceased his rushed actions and is now only focused on him.

“I don‘t think I can leave this town,” Cas says.

The words hang between them in the dusty air. Dean weighs the shirt he was just packing in his hands, shoves it into the bag and slumps down on the couch.

“What am I supposed to do?” he roars, burying his face in his hands. He rakes his fingers through his hair so hard he can feel the paths of his nails burning against his scalp.

“What am I supposed to do?”

Silence descends unto the room like a blanket. Cas begins to speak, the gravel of his voice so low it‘s almost lost in the sound of Dean‘s blood rushing in his ears.

“I knew it,” he says, his voice eerily calm. “Those memories I had – they didn‘t feel right. Like a distant dream, a story told to me by someone I don‘t even remember. Maybe it wasn‘t so much that I hadn‘t–,” he falters, “that she hadn‘t given me all those powers, but I simply didn‘t remember how it felt to use them.”

“You used your powers against those demons,” Dean answers wearily, his palms still pressed against his eyes until red spots start to dance in front of him. He hears the light tapping of footsteps as Cas walks over to him. Stops about a couple of feet before him, and why is this of all times the one occasion he takes personal space actually seriously?

“She said she created them. I suppose that‘s also the reason the man in the bar could hurt me while they couldn‘t.” Cas falters, his voice hesitant. Grasping for pieces of a puzzle whose finished picture Dean doesn‘t want to see and still Cas continues to talk, struggling against Dean‘s silence.

“I recognized the house on those pictures. I didn‘t know from where, I just knew–”

“How come you didn‘t care to tell me all this before?” Dean raises his head and looks up at Cas. He doesn‘t yell, but it‘s not a far stretch. Cas‘s expression goes blank at his tone, his jaw clenched tight, fists balled.

“I didn‘t know what it meant at that time,” he growls. Using his low, fucked out “I gave up everything for you”-voice that even back then made sparks run down Dean‘s spine.

Except back then it was the real Cas who said them, and this isn‘t Cas.

The other one takes a deep breath. “I only noticed when I realized how much clearer the memories of the past day were than the ones of my supposed time before. The memories I have of what happened during the last two days, those were the only ones that were real.”

Dean cringes at the words, images from the last night flashing through his mind. Images of what he‘s done to this– creature, whatever it is.

“I used you,” he says.

“This is not about you behaving wrongly,” Cas says, impatience sneaking into his tone. “You didn‘t do anything I didn‘t want, too.”

“Yeah, right,” Dean scoffs, “except you just wanted it because I wished for it.” He spits out the last words, sarcasm dripping from his voice like acid.

“But still I want it, so tell me, Dean, where‘s the difference?” He can hear a hint of desperation in the other‘s voice, of hurt, and oh, the guilt. Tearing through his guts like sharp blades.

He jumps up so suddenly the other Cas tumbles back in astonishment.

“I‘m going for a drink,” he says gruffly, pushing past him and grabbing his jacket on the way.

He doesn‘t look back as the door falls shut behind him, but all the way to the Impala he can feel Cas‘s gaze burn in the skin of his neck. Confused, and hurt, and betrayed.

And then there‘s just him and his baby, speeding down the dark road as fast as possible.


	5. Chapter 5

When Dean comes back hours later, the first tendrils of dawn already wrap around the motel. The other Cas is lying on the bed, on top of the covers, fully dressed and sleeping. His figure seems small in the layers of trench-coat wrapped around him and his face still bears that lost expression that not even sleep can wipe away. For a long moment Dean stands at the entrance of the room, his hand still resting on the knob of the door, watching the motionless figure.

Finally he makes his way over to the couch, carefully, soundlessly. Sits down. Leans forward, arms propped on his knees, and still his gaze is on the other Cas. Cas‘s shirt has slipped out of his pants during the night, baring a sliver of pale skin. Even now Dean‘s fingers are itching for him, but–

 _Gotta find him a new name_ , he thinks wearily. When only looking at him hurts so much, he can‘t bring himself to call him by Cas‘s name. But then again, there really is no other name for him. Stuck either way.

Like a heavy hand exhaustion presses on the base of his skull, the insides of his burning eyes. But he knows he‘ll find no rest, not now. And where? There‘s no way he‘d go back to that bed while the other one is lying in it. Not anymore. The images of last night, of the last days come flooding back to him, yet they feel strangely disconnected. He remembers everything he‘s felt, thought, tasted. He remembers everything he‘s felt for that creature sleeping only feet away from him. But right now, when he listens inside of him, it‘s not there anymore.

 _How can it be_ , he thinks almost desperately, _where did it all go? How can there be all these feelings the one day and the next moment they‘re just gone?_

But he hasn‘t really loved the person sleeping in front of him, has he? This being, it looks like Cas, it talks like Cas, it probably even thinks like him, but it isn‘t him, is it? And is this important? If they both are one and the same, is there even a difference between them? Should he not love this Cas like he has the loved the other one?

But he doesn‘t, and in the onslaught of questions this is his only answer.

###

When the other one awakes, the sun has risen fully and birds are chirping outside, their gaudy little voices worlds away from the dusty silence encompassing the room.

First Dean sees his hand move, hesitantly creeping to the other side of the bed, a pale spider dancing over empty sheets and untouched pillows. A deep breath. Shoulders that tense slightly.

“Cas‘s dead, isn‘t he,” Dean says.

The other one‘s head turns slowly, facing him. “I don‘t know,” he answers finally. “Probably.”

“Either that or he‘s in heaven,” Dean continues and damn, his voice is hoarse. From too much silence and too many thoughts. “Partying with his angelic brethren.”

“I don‘t think so. He wouldn‘t do that to you.”

“How do you wanna know?” he says, bitterness giving his words too much of an edge.

“Because I wouldn‘t.”

Dean stares at him, at those stolen blue eyes returning his gaze with calm resignation and suddenly he has his answers.

“We‘re gonna find a way,” he says. “We‘re gonna find a way to get you out of this.”

The other one‘s eyes widen, a kaleidoscope of emotion rushing through them.

Hope, fear, worry, hope, love, hope. Despair.

The shields drop almost visible.

“It can‘t be done,” he says, an eerie calmness settling on his face. “If I‘m alive, that witch is alive, too. She will continue to kill. She will kill–” he takes a deep breath. “You can‘t let her live. This is what you‘ve been doing your whole life, protecting people from evil.”

“Bullshit,” Dean replies, maybe with a little bit too much force. “Not the first time we let something live that should be dead, won‘t be the last time either. There‘s got to be a way to pull this off, there‘s always a way if you dig deep enough.”

The expression on the other one‘s face is still doubtful as Dean gets up and strides over to the bed.

“We‘ll find a way,” he repeats, and this time his voice is firm, authoritative. The voice he‘s used in this kind of situations thousands of times before, his warrior voice. “We‘ll do some research, find her weakness. No one‘s going to die here, not even that bitch if that‘s what it takes.”

The other one – oh, whatever, _Cas_ slowly raises from the pillows, and when Dean sits down next to him, facing him, he can see a little spark of hope lighting up in the far back of his eyes.

Just a little spark, and even though it still hurts like hell – it‘s enough to assure him he‘s done right this time.

###

They start research right after they‘ve gotten breakfast. After two nights with little to no sleep Dean‘s starting to feel a little bit rough, but the coffee they‘ve gotten is strong and black. Back in the motel he flops down at the table, booting up his laptop, while Cas sits on the bed and starts skimming through the books Dean has brought with him. They work in quiet concentration, the silence only interrupted by the rustling of pages, the scratching of a pen on paper, the occasional tapping of Dean‘s fingers on the keyboard.

By noon they still haven‘t found much, just rumors lurking in the depth of shady forums and communities and obscure mailing-lists. Never a name, and never the one thing they‘re looking for.

At about 2 p.m. Dean cracks and calls Bobby.

“Who‘d have thought,” Bobby says in lieu of a greeting. “The prodigal son calling in.”

“Bobby, I need your help,” Dean cuts to the chase, ignoring the sarcasm in the other hunter‘s tone.

A short silence, then Bobby‘s voice is back in his ear, serious all of a sudden. “You‘re not sounding too good, boy. What‘s going on there?”

“I need info on a supernatural creature, probably female. Might be a witch, might be something else, I don‘t know. She creates copies of people her victims–,” he falters, then continues, “were attached to who serve as channels for her to suck the vic dry.” He avoids the other Cas‘s gaze at those last words, focusing at the water stains on the ceiling instead, when another piece of conversation comes flitting back into his mind. “Oh yeah, and a dream-walker apparently.”

Bobby inhales sharply. “OK, boy, listen up,” he says, urgency in his voice, “you gotta get out of this town. There‘s a Paradise Inn just outside of Beaver, we‘ll be meeting you there.”

“Just tell me how to hurt her, Bobby.”

“Dean, that‘s a real bad one you got at your hands there. At the best she‘s a powerful witch well into her thousands, at the worst could be one of ‘em freakin‘ demigods. Good hunters have been going up against her, and none of ‘em lived through it. Not really a one-person-gig, son.”

Dean looks at Cas, who just sits on the bed, listening intently. He swallows.

“Gotta try, Bobby. There‘s no way around it.”

There‘s a sigh and a long silence on the other end of the line.

“Silver dagger through the heart,” Bobby finally says begrugdingly. “If you believe the talk that‘s been going around, that‘s what might do the trick.” Dean motions to Cas to write it down, silently mouthing the words to him.

“Right,” he says, “you also know a way to trap her?”

“You mean without killing her?” Bobby asks, suspicious. There‘s a pause, and then, “Dean, who you got in there with you?”

“No one,” Dean says calmly.

“Dean,” the other hunter continues insistently, “listen to me, boy, if she‘s–”

Dean hangs up the phone. Stares at the tiny black box of the cell in his hand, wondering what the hell he‘s doing here. Then he switches it off.

“He could have known more. Maybe you should have listened to him a little bit longer.” His head snaps up at the sound of Cas‘s voice, the usual evenness carefully devoid of any hidden meanings, of any accusations.

“Don‘t need to. Know what he would‘ve said and it wouldn‘t have been about how to trap her, you can bet on that.”

“How do you know?”

“Cause I‘d probably say the same if I was in his situation. Hell, I did say the same,” he lets out a short bitter laugh, “when I told him to put down his own wife like a rabid dog.”

Suddenly the exhaustion that‘s been lingering in the back of his mind all day floods his every limb, nerve and bone. Tiredness so deep, he feels like he can never sleep it off.

“She would have killed him otherwise.” Cas looks at him with this oh so familiar wide-eyed stare. “I don‘t want to hurt you,” he says, and underneath his usual calm there‘s something else, desperation and begging and disbelief.

Biting his lip Dean crouches down in front of the fake angel, reaching out until his fingertips rest lightly on the other‘s knee.

“Cas, look–” he begins, but the other one interrupts him.

“It‘s late already. We should continue our research.”

Dean looks up to him, eyes burning with fatigue. Cas is sitting right in front of him, the cold neon light above him chiseling every single one of his features with painful clarity, and the longing hits Dean like a punch in the gut. His brain is screaming at him that this is not Castiel, but his eyes, they see Cas, and his ears hear his voice.

But this person won‘t look at him and the lines around his eyes are only two days old. Dean raises to his feet, dusting imaginary dirt off his knees with shaky hands.

“Yeah, guess we should,” he answers, and gets back to his table.

Slowly the day passes by, minutes melting into hours melting into late afternoon. The sunlight filtering through the threadbare curtains turns bright, then golden, then darker and darker. More and more Dean finds himself aimlessly staring out of the window instead of focusing on the screen in front of him. The empty paper cups of thin, oily vending machine-coffee are piling next to his elbows, propped up on the table, but he just can‘t shake the listlessness taking over his whole body, his mind.

He turns his head and Cas is meeting his glance from across the room. Wide blue eyes shining with knowledge and something like pity. And suddenly Dean realizes Cas has been watching him, and that Dean‘s hardly talked to him all afternoon.

“Have you found anything?” Cas asks, hesitation slowing his words even more than usual. Low, his voice, raspy velvet on Dean‘s skin, yet it reaches down his guts and pulls them right up his throat. He swallows, once, twice, then answers gruffly, “No luck yet. You?”

“No,” says Cas, lowering his gaze to his books again. Just this one word, but it‘s enough for Dean to feel like the world‘s biggest asshole. Cursing under his breath he gets up, closing the distance between them and kneeling on the mattress in front of the other man.

“Cas,” he murmurs softly.

The other looks up, and Dean can see his tiredness mirrored in his eyes. More resigned acceptance than defeat, really, even if Dean doesn‘t want to think about what it is Cas has accepted here.

“We‘re gonna find a way, I‘m gonna figure something out, Cas,” Dean says urgently, the repetition ringing shallow in his ears. He goes on with a stubborn fierceness that burns through his almost-capitulation, that feels blessedly like himself again. “Dammit, I‘m not going to let you just die again!”

Their gazes lock for a long moment, and then he slowly bends forward, pressing a soft kiss to the other one‘s forehead. He can feel him go limp in his hands, lean into his touch and he can feel something inside of him spring up in return. Powerful, surging, a feeling of protectiveness he hasn‘t felt in so long, not this strong. Here and now, with this confused being slumped against him he feels a fierce urge to protect this Cas or die trying. And no matter how much it hurts just to touch him, no matter how much the thought of his real Cas, his real angel being dead and gone forever eats at his insides, he won‘t just let this other one go without a fight.

Drawing back he finds Cas staring up at him, surprise on his face, in his eyes. Dean stretches out on the dingy comforter, pulling the other one with him, into him, until they lay side by side and he can feel Cas‘s heart beat against his chest. Like a little bird caught in between his hands, a rapid flutter of delicate wings. Warm skin under the thin material of Cas‘s shirt and hot breath ghosting over his neck.

The weight of Cas‘s body is heavy in his arms and in his heart as darkness gradually spreads through the room.

###

He awakes alone, velvety blackness around him. Rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand he sits up, trying to shake the last remnants of sleep from his consciousness.

His searching hands only find empty air next to him and when he turns on the bedside lamp, there‘s no one except him in the golden circle of light.

“Dammit,” he curses under his breath as he jumps out of the bed and storms out of the room.

 _Dammit, Cas_ , he thinks grimly, and then the Impala‘s engine roars up and he‘s heading back to that narrow side road, to those silent trees and to the white house with its insides of dusty dread.

###

The feeling of deja vu is overwhelming as he steers his baby down the bumpy path. But then he‘s out of his car and starting towards the house, and it disappears in the onslaught of his worry about Cas. The other Cas. Whatever, the person who went in there to save him – again.

Somehow it feels like past and present overlaying itself, the memories of the real Cas and the ones of this one interweaving and shifting into his mind. His rational mind knows, they are two different entities, but his heart keeps having trouble keeping them apart. Two versions of one truth, a thin line he keeps threatening to fall off of. A duality that keeps tearing at his will, his mind, his existence again and again, tearing him apart and putting him back together countless times. Only this time, he himself doesn‘t know what will turn out on the other side.

The thistles and weeds cut and tear at his clothes as he carefully approaches the house from the side, gun drawn and trying to stay out of view of the windows. Then he‘s at the front door, pulling out his lock picks. It gives almost instantly and he pulls his gun back from where he shoved it into the waistband of his jeans. Slowly he pushes the door open, only a slit. Moves into the quiet hallway. The floor boards creak slightly under his booted feet and he freezes, listening.

There are voices coming from the kitchen. They are quiet, hardly more than a mumble. A woman, and he‘s pretty sure it‘s that damn witch. And Cas.

He creeps closer, pressed against the cool walls. The sound of his leather jacket against wallpaper, a whisper in the dim twilight of the hall. The butt of his .45 is smooth in his hands and he tightens his grip around it.

The kitchen is brightly lit, warm light spilling out onto the parquet. He stops when the tips of his boots are only a eyelash‘s width away from crossing over into it. The clatter of cups and plates drift to his ear. Still the silence around him is so strong, he can hear his heart skip a beat at the sound of Cas‘s voice.

“I don‘t want any, thanks.”

“Are you sure?” Silence, then, “Your loss, darling, it‘s a very good Oolong.”

Steps, light. The sound of liquid being poured. A chair scraping over the floor.

“You still haven‘t told me why you‘re here, at this ungodly hour.” There‘s amusement in the witch‘s voice that makes Dean want to storm right into the room and wipe the smirk off her face, but he keeps himself in check. He wants to hear this.

“I thought it would be obvious.” Cas says, and Dean winces at the exhaustion under the calmness of his voice. “I want you to let Dean go.”

The witch laughs, but there‘s an edge to it that makes Dean‘s hair bristle. “Oh, you really are special. I think this has happened... let me think, once, maybe twice in my whole existence? Two thousand years and I have to wait for an angel-lusting scumbag of a hunter for this. To have one of my children come to my home and oppose me.” Her tone grows cold with her last words, a threat so sharp it chills Dean‘s bones.

“He‘s just one man. You wouldn‘t even notice the difference.”

“Oh, believe me, I would. But what‘s even more important,” her voice softens again, “if I really did, what would happen to you? Would you just fade and disappear? Or live at your hunter‘s side, a happy, long life? Where do you see yourself, _Castiel_?”

There‘s no answer, but even from his hiding place Dean can feel the tension in the room, a pressure on his chest and static on his skin as he holds his breath, waiting for Cas‘s answer.

“I would die, I think,” Cas says calmly, but Dean more feels than hears the slight wavering to his tone. “There‘s no other possibility.”

“Oh, but there is,” the witch answers lightly.

“There is?” The hope in Cas‘s voice mirrors the one springing up in Dean, and then–

“No,” says the witch. “Of course not, what do you think? You‘re just a figment of his imagination, brought to something resembling life by my magic. Manufactured only to kill him slowly. You‘re not even close to the real thing. You‘re like a black and white-copy of a Van Gogh painting, like a passerby‘s reflection in a puddle of muddy rainwater, like–”

“That‘s enough,” Dean snaps, stepping out into the kitchen. His voice is rough with rage. At the witch, but also at himself for just standing there and eavesdropping like a fucking peeping tom while she stomped all over Cas‘s feelings. He can feel Cas‘s gaze on him, disbelieving searing blue, but he keeps his eyes on the woman, gun pointing at her head.

“Finally,” she says, heaving a fake sigh. “I started to think you‘d stand out there forever.”

“Dean,” Cas says, confusion and something like apprehension in his voice. “What are you doing here?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “What do you think I‘m doing here? Getting you, idiot.”

“I‘m not–”

“Just go, Cas, I‘ll be right behind you.” Without taking his eyes off the witch he carefully moves away from the door to give Cas passage.

Except Cas is not moving.

“Cas!” Dean bellows.

“I‘m sorry, Dean,” Cas says, “but I won‘t be coming with you.”

“Dude, not the time,” Dean replies brusquely. “We can discuss this all you want in the motel, but now move.”

“There‘s nothing to discuss. You should go now. I‘ll stay.”

“Cas–” Dean starts, but is interrupted by a loud crash as Cas stands up so fast, his chair tips over and scatters over the floor.

“Stop calling me that,” he grinds out. And Dean doesn‘t care that the witch is still smiling and he‘s learnt to never look away from an opponent who can still smile while having a gun trained at her head. He turns towards Cas, standing behind the kitchen table, clothes rumpled and hair spiked. Cas, breathing hard and eyes wide. So much Cas his heart hurts just from looking at him.

So much that his voice is even, almost tranquil when he answers. “Got no other name for you.”

“You don‘t need to bother with finding one anymore,” Cas, the other Cas, says, the bitterness in his voice cutting through Dean like barb wire. “You won‘t need it. Go.”

“Not without you.”

Cas huffs out a helpless laugh that‘s far too close to a sob. “God dammit, Dean, didn‘t you listen? I‘m killing you! I‘m not Castiel, I‘m not real. I‘m not even alive.”

Dean stares at him, opening his mouth, but nothing comes out. There are no words in him that could un-do this, change this. Just the pain, dark and vicious, greedily tearing through him, ripping away. Cas lowers his gaze, his jaw twitching, all fight gone, and still there‘s nothing Dean can say.

Except there is.

“Fuck this,” he snarls, jerking around and pointing his gun at the witch again, “and what the hell are you laughing at? You enjoy this? You fucking enjoy this?”

He yells his last words, but she doesn‘t seem the least intimidated.

“Enjoy?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow. “Oh Dean, you have no idea how good this is for me. This, this is–” she stops, taking a deep breath, almost a moan. Her tongue sneaks out, flickering over her lips. “I have fed off kings and queens, saints and popes, but this... I haven‘t had something like this in centuries.”

Dean takes a look at her eyes, glazed under half-closed lids, and wants to throw up.

“Disgusting,” he grounds out between clenched teeth. “You‘re disgusting. You go on and on, about how high and mighty you are, how old and wise, but what you really are is just a low-life, heartless bitch.”

Her eyes snap open. “How dare you–”

He raises his voice over hers. “All this time, and you never once stop to think about what you‘re doing to them? What about him, huh?” He motions towards Cas with his head. “What about all the other _children_ you set into this world, first whoring them out and then forcing them to kill their people like Valentine‘s day gone Chainsaw Massacre? You know, I don‘t give a rat‘s ass about what you throw my way. I fought in the goddamn apocalypse, I‘ve had worse, and quite probably I deserve everything you can dish out. But he doesn‘t.”

“Mind your tone, boy,” the witch snarls, glaring at him with narrowed eyes. “Because I may be a heartless bitch, but you, you‘re just _human_. You‘re my food, Dean, that‘s all. You‘re even less to me than he is so don‘t you get snarky with me.”

“Fuck you,” Dean says, doing his best to stare the bitch down, “I‘m done with your bullshit. I‘m not playing along anymore. You can do this, so do it. This is the deal: He lives, I live, you live. We‘ll leave now and never come back and everyone will live happily ever after. You understand?”

“No,” the woman hisses. “As usual you completely forget who‘s in charge here. It‘s me, Dean. Me, not you. I set the terms here, not you. And I tell you, I‘m not passing on this, on you. You will die, and he will, too!”

“You stupid bitch,” Dean growls, red hot rage boiling through his blood, “We‘ll see who‘s in charge here when I gut you so fast–”

“Oh, really,” she snarls, laughing sharply. With a movement so swift he barely even realizes she‘s backed him up against the kitchen counters. Instinct makes him jerk up his arms as she goes for his throat, her teeth lengthening before his eyes.

“You think I need him to kill you? That I can‘t do it on my own?” Her voice is barely more than a lisp now, the teeth seriously interfering with her speech. Her breath on his face, pungent and hot as she hisses venomously, “Do you really think that?” Desperately he pushes against her, groaning in exertion, his wrists already trembling.

And then, all of a sudden, the pressure is gone. She exhales sharply, just once. Dean watches horrified, panting heavily, as she slides down his body and onto the floor.

Cas is watching the crumpled body with almost scientific scrutiny, the bloody silver knife still in his hand.

“Sure you can,” he says calmly. “Sure I can, too.”

Dean stares at him wide eyed.

“Cas–” he starts, then clears his voice. “Cas.”

There isn‘t really anything more he can think of to say now, and Cas is just standing there, eyes trained on the blood pooling at his feet.

“You‘re still here,” Dean starts eventually. “Does that mean–”

“No,” Cas says, his voice rough, and tired, and just this side of not breaking. Dean squints and really, he can see his edges blurring, the color of his trench and suit, his skin and hair and of his eyes wash out, fade ever so subtly.

“I don‘t believe this,” he grinds out, bringing his fist down on the wall next to him in helpless desperation. “This is supposed to be the part where I save people. Why, God, why does this one time of all fucking times have to be different? Why can‘t I save you?”

Cas‘s gaze flicker from his face to the plaster trickling from the wall and back. Resignation is back in his eyes, so deep that Dean‘s own bones ache with it.

“Because I‘m not the one you want to save,” Cas states simply.

“You are,” Dean says, and the lie burns his tongue.

Cas just raises an eyebrow.

“You are,” Dean repeats. “Even if he‘s the one I really wanted to have back, doesn‘t mean I‘m happy about you dying. I know you‘re not him, but I meant what I said. You‘re the last of all people who‘d deserve this.”

This time the words ring surprisingly true in his ear. The other Cas‘s eyes widen, then the corners of his mouth turn upwards almost imperceptibly.

“Ok,” he says.

Then he‘s gone.

###

Later Dean doesn‘t remember how he gets out of the house. Just that suddenly, there is grass under his feet and the indistinct gray of dawn dulling the world around him, flattening everything to 2D as insomnia presses down on his stomach, curling behind his forehead. The cool smooth surface of the Impala under his hands, comfortingly familiar through thousands of days, thousands of times, suddenly more real than anything else he‘s gone through these last days. Heavily he supports his elbows on its roof, head buried in his hands, inhaling, exhaling, trying to calm down. In the mirror of its well-cared for black sheer he can catch a glimpse of his own reflection. Man, he feels like crap. But damn, he has every right to. Because for the third time now, the fucking third time, he‘s lost Cas, and for good this time, as it seems, and it‘s just too much.

Slowly his head slides down until his forehead hits metal and then the tears slide down his cheeks, first one, then two, then still more. Hot tracks down the corner‘s of his eyes, dripping into his jacket and onto the shiny top of his car, making him taste salt as a strangled sob escapes his lips. Embarrassing, that‘s what it is, but somehow he‘s not even trying to make it stop. For once in his life crying actually feels good, kind of cleansing, actually. Sam would probably use the word catharsis right now, but Dean‘s never been that much into big words and showing off his awesome power of vocabulary.

Sniffing heartily he gets up, roughly wipes his sleeve over his eyes, then over the Impala‘s roof and gets in the car. In the rearview mirror he can see his face, all puffy and red-eyed, but nothing he can do against that now. As he shifts into gear and slowly rolls out of the cracked driveway he doesn‘t look back, his mind already set on the road.

After all, he has a long way to drive.

###

When he arrives at Bobby‘s the next day, it‘s already late afternoon. The scrapyard and the house look like the setting of a massive Roman orgy, like in those 60ies sword-and-sandal flicks; empty bottles, glasses and plates with half-eaten food scattered everywhere. Dean half expects Kirk Douglas coming round the corner any second, sporting one of these ridiculous leather-and-chainmail-minis and proudly exclaiming “I am Spartacus!”. Luckily it‘s just Bobby, cursing under his breath as he drags a giant bag of trash behind his wheelchair.

“Lemme get that,” Dean says, walking up behind him. Bobby‘s look of relieved surprise is quickly being replaced by gruffness. “About time yer back,” he mutters, peering at him out of narrowed eyes, “your brother was goin‘ nuts on me. You taken care of that witch?”

It‘s good that Dean‘s just bending down to retrieve the bag so Bobby doesn‘t see the expression on his face. “Yeah,” he answers just as gruffly.

“Good.”

He looks up in surprise at the soft edge of Bobby‘s voice. But then he remembers a figure slouched in a wheelchair next to a bed, a gun in limp hands and blood splattered over a white pillow. So he just nods at Bobby, then turns abruptly, swinging the bag into the container a few feet away.

“Oh my God, DEAN!” and then he is swept up in a giant, bone-crushing hug.

“'S alright, Sammy, you don‘t have to choke me.” Irritably he pats his brother‘s shoulder. Sam releases him and blushes, but continues to stare at him like he‘s the goddamn Virgin Mary. Rachel stands next to them, smiling at Dean and rolling her eyes. Dean can‘t help himself, he has to start laughing.

###

Later he and Sam sit together on the front porch, each of them nursing a bottle of beer and watching the sun set. Dean feels relaxed, the exhaustion from the long drive and everything else tugging at his every limb, but not like before, not in a bad way. Cas‘s face is still in his mind, but it‘s a peaceful memory. No blood, no shattered bodies, just the barely there smile on his face as he fades away.

“Look, Dean,” Sam clears his throat in a way Dean knows heralds his patented girly talks, “Bobby told us about that witch, and about... the things she makes people see.”

“You don‘t say.”

Silence, then his brother turns to face him.

“It was Cas, wasn‘t it?”

Dean takes a long swig of his beer, his eyes not leaving the red-golden line of the horizon. Sam begins to fidget at his prolonged silence, hardly able to reign in his curiosity. Dean grins.

“Gentlemen don‘t kiss and tell, Sammy.”

Sam rolls his eyes at him. “Yeah, right. Just– what happened? Honestly I didn‘t expect to ever see you again, or at the least be a total mess, and now you come back from that hunt and you‘re–,” he shakes his head in amazement, “well, you seem _OK_. You‘re really alright?”

“Yeah, Sammy, I‘m alright. It wasn‘t a walk in the park, but I‘m good. Really.”

Sam still looks not convinced, so he shoots him a wicked grin. “At least I got laid this time.”

“Dude, gross!”

He laughs, and after a second of fake bitch-facing Sam joins him. Shaking his head in loving contempt he gets up and goes inside, still grinning.

Dean stays behind, watching as the dark red orb of the sun touches the horizon and starts to melt into it. The relaxed feeling from before is spreading through him again, quiet and solemn, and somehow brilliant blue. He raises his half-full bottle towards the sinking ball of fire.

“Here‘s to you, Cas, Angel of the Lord. Wherever you are, rest in peace.”

Then he downs it in one swallow.

_The end_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was inspired by a mix of Blind Faith's “Can't find my way home” and Solaris (the book, not the movie. Neither of them). Even though I couldn't address even half the issues that make Solaris so intriguing and compelling, it was when I first read it that I started thinking about how Dean would react in such a situation. Only when I revised the last chapter of my final draft did I suddenly realize, that “Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid” is maybe not the same, but a very similar story. On the other hand, by that time I was so focused on my story that even the little Mermaid (the Hans Christian Andersen-version, not the Disney one) seemed totally the same thing (when the little mermaid is supposed to kill the prince but doesn't and kills herself instead? Come on, it's totally the same!).
> 
> The witch is loosely based on a very liberal interpretation of the ancient Greek legend of the [Lamia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lamia_\(mythology\)), queen of Libya. Mostly I used the depiction as given in [John Keats' poem "Lamia"](http://www.gutenberg.org/catalog/world/readfile?fk_files=1449187).
> 
> Osiris as well as Beaver are real places in Utah. Apparently Osiris is a ghost town, which was the reason I chose it – besides the name obviously.
> 
> Back then, I also made a PDF-ebook of the story, and miraculously, the download-link is still up ([Mediafire](http://www.mediafire.com/file/re94027941q6s74/Come_Down_Off_Your_Throne.pdf/file)). It was a bit of an experiment because I modeled the typography and the layout after a couple of my favorite books instead of other pdf-files. I also contains some of [the art](https://kruel-angel.livejournal.com/133951.html) that [kruel_angel](https://kruel-angel.livejournal.com/) made for the story.


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